


Shards

by westernredcedar



Series: Shards [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: Canon from Jack's POV, Canon mental health issues, Coming Out, Jack is gay in this fic, M/M, Photography, Pie, Shitty's Life Advice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-04
Updated: 2016-12-03
Packaged: 2018-08-28 23:15:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 30
Words: 20,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8466712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/westernredcedar/pseuds/westernredcedar
Summary: “What? Perfecting asshole-sitting-alone-in-the-corner? I’d say you’ve got that one nailed.”





	1. First Skate

**Author's Note:**

> I've recently fallen into Jack/Eric hell, and can't stop pondering all of the little moments of their developing friendship and relationship, especially from Jack's point of view. I plan to post little teeny chapters daily for as long as these characters chatter on in my head (sort of my own mini-nanowrimo). I am a very amateur hockey fan (I loved it in college, back in the day) so I'll do my best but will probably sound like a hockey idiot occasionally. Comments to improve my hockey-ness will be appreciated. This is sadly unbeta'd at this point. Also, I'm obsessed with imagining Jack's accent. Just FYI. Also also, I'll keep adding tags as they become relevant.

“I know, like all of us, you’ve spent many a lonely night imagining Holster fellating a slice of pie.”

Jack is reading over notes from Coach Murray. He looks up. “Not now, Shitty…”

“No, no, good news! You need imagine no more. It’s actually happening.” Shitty folds himself down next to Jack on the bench at the back of the locker room. Jack had retreated into paperwork as soon as he’d finished his welcome to the new team members; he’s restless and twitchy and eager to get on the ice. Shitty slings an arm over Jack’s shoulder and leans in. “Maybe fellatio is an exaggeration. But there is definite oral gratification happening, and someone is going to orgasm soon. I’m putting my money on the slice of pie.”

“Why is there pie?”

“Chalk it up to one over-eager frog. That…” Shitty stretches himself up to look into the crowd, “...little dude being talked at by Johnson. Bittle.”

Jack glances over long enough to be unnerved by how much the new kid looks like Kenny from the back, slender neck and shock of bright hair. “I’ll have a talk with him.”

Shitty clears his throat. “Right. About how delicious his pie is, and to thank him for being so thoughtful to bring us a homemade pie, and to suggest he do it again?”

“No.”

Shitty frowns at him, and then settles back against the lockers. “Where the hell is Jack Zimmermann? Nice fellow, captain of the men’s hockey team, generally pleasant to be around? If you find him, can you mail the fucker back here to Samwell University, care of Mr. B. Knight, postage paid?”

“I'm trying to get ahead on this, Shitty. I have work to do.”

“What? Perfecting asshole-sitting-alone-in-the-corner? I’d say you’ve got that one nailed.” 

Jack sucks in a lungful of air, trying to push back the creeping rise in his blood pressure, that familiar tingle of panic that he’s doing everything wrong and can’t find a way to stop. The crowd, the new team members, being back at school. He’s not ready. But he’s never completely ready. For anything. He closes his eyes, let’s the breath out. 

“Sorry, Shitty. I’m just…” 

Shitty leans against Jack’s side and gives him a nudge. “Jack, I know. Right? I know.” Jack looks at him, allows himself to breathe evenly for a moment. Shitty smiles, and Jack tries to smile back. “But seriously, dude. Come have pie. It’s pecan.”

Jack lets Shitty grab his hands and pull him up. “I’m telling that new kid no pie when we skate.”

“You say that now. Holster was opposed at first, too, but now he and the pie are engaged.” 

Jack snorts, and let’s Shitty drag him back into the world.


	2. Pie

Jack eats the sliver of pecan pie that Shitty forces on him, and carefully keeps his face a mask of neutrality. It’s the most glorious tasting pie he’s ever eaten, but damn if he'll ever let anyone else know that.

After Shitty let's him free, Jack locates the pie baker, pale and clearly terrified, getting into his gear. The kid is short enough that he’s lost amongst the forest of upperclassmen, like someone’s little brother in town for Family Weekend. Up close, Jack realizes he looks nothing like Parse, not really, but an odd sensation, like a slight buzz, lingers from his earlier impression. 

“Oh, hello. Captain Zimmermann!” The kid (Bittle, right?) practically salutes. If possible, his eyes get even more wide. 

“Thank you for the pie. Bittle, right?” 

The kid’s shoulders visibly relax. “Oh, my pleasure! In my family, we introduce ourselves with pastry when meeting folks for the first time, but Lord I never thought…”

“Don’t do it again, though.” Jack cuts him off, but not before the lilt of the kid’s accent sinks in.

“Oh?”

“Low-fat, high carbs, lean protein. And no solids right before a skate.” Jack ticks each point off on his fingers. The words echo in his head in his father’s baritone.

Bittle’s eyes get wider yet (dark brown, not at all like Kenny’s). “This is all just a bit...different than my old team.”

“You’re at Samwell now.”

Bittle looks around the locker room for a moment and a little smile touches the corners of his lips. “Yeah. I sure am,” he says.

His smile is nothing like Kenny’s either, Jack notes. He’s not sure what ever made him think they looked alike.


	3. After First Skate

“Fuuuck, the frogs are so damn adorable. I wanna get them all laid, like, tonight.” Ransom slings his gear bag over his shoulder, walking next to Jack and Shitty back to the Haus. 

“That little Bittle with his pie was so sweet," says Holster as he trots to catch up. "I was forced to snap my jock in his general direction. Aimed for his head, but only caught him on the shoulder. He didn’t seem to appreciate it was a compliment.”

“That, my friend, is just fucking unsanitary,” Shitty says, and dodges Holster’s elbow.

“Bittle’s very small,” Jack adds. He’d watched the new team members carefully. Some mediocre talent, but the Bittle kid was really quick and agile. He’d skated rings around the other frogs (at one point literally, which Jack had called a stop to, even though he was impressed). But he looked about half of Jack’s weight, and about a quarter of Ransom or Holster’s. It was hard to imagine him lasting against Brown or Rensselaer, with their huge defenders. 

“Who cares how big he is if he makes us pies and shit.” 

“No more pies. I told him.”

“I assume that was right after ‘Welcome to the team, so glad to meet you’,” Shitty says, a little too pointedly for Jack to ignore. 

“You know what an important year this is, Shitty,” Jack says, a growing tightness in his chest as he accesses his endless mental list of all he needs to accomplish in order to keep the team together, keep up his own game, keep up with school work, keep the eyes of the scouts. “I just want us to be the best.”

“Yeah, Jack. We know you do,” says Ransom. “But...pies.”

“Some things might be worth an exception,” Shitty mutters, but Jack chooses to pretend he didn’t hear him.

*

Back in his room, Jack renews his routine of sorting his gear away and stowing his bag and skates before collapsing on the bed. Another year underway. He needs to sleep, hasn’t for a few nights, but he’s wired from the morning, still thinking about the way Bittle pulled off those tight spins as they drilled. 

Frustrated, he pulls out his phone. There are two text messages awaiting him. 

**Parse** _Back on the ice today? How’s the team looking this year?_

**Papa** _Je suis fier de toi. You won’t let your team down._

Suddenly, it’s too much. He’s bone weary. Jack has only enough energy to write back the tersest of responses ( _Looks promising./Merci, papa._ ). He sits for a few minutes, then calls and leaves a message for his therapist. 

Jack can still taste the faint sugary richness of pecans as he finally drifts off, sprawled across his covers.


	4. Sydney

Dr. Sydney Masseret finishes counting the little blue pills and carefully pours them from the tray back into the prescription bottle on her desk. It’s a ritual Jack had asked of her when he first started seeing her freshman year. Just a brief double-check, someone to hold him accountable if he’s taken one or two extra, if he starts to slip. 

“Seventeen left, just as there should be,” she says in her calming, practical voice. “Were you tempted? I know the start of the year can be challenging for you.”

It’s their first appointment in months. He met with his psychiatrist in Montreal once in the summer, but that was just to get his prescription refilled. He’s missed Sydney. A lot. “No, not tempted. I’ve been fine.”

“You feel safe?”

“Yes.”

“Then why don’t you sit down?”

Jack had not noticed he was still standing. 

He tries to settle into the leather chair, but his muscles are all twitchy and he pops right back up to standing when he tries to speak.

Sydney considers him a moment with her measured gaze, then says, “Why don’t I just stand as well. You are awfully tall up there.” She comes out from behind her desk and leans up against it. Her hair is different since Jack saw her last, now a crisp grey bob.

Jack presses his hands onto the back of the chair he’s meant to be sitting in. “Sure.”

“So, Jack. How are you?” 

“I guess not as fine as I thought?” Jack still can’t figure out how to sit down.

Sydney's eyebrow shoots up. “No?”

Jack doesn’t take anything about Sydney for granted. She’s one of the most important people in his life, even though no one but his parents and coaches even knows she exists for him. She’s helped him through small setbacks (chemistry lab), big ones (playoffs) and asked the big questions (“Did you _want_ to die?”) all without ever letting Jack off the hook. He tries to sort out the mess of thoughts he knows he needs to share with Sydney right now: the subtle pressure from his father, the intensity of this year, the weird, lingering relationship with Parse, the nagging guilt that he’s not living up to anyone’s expectations. But that’s not why he called her, or why he can’t sit down.

“I think I was attracted to someone,” he blurts, and a pressure in his chest loosens a little. “For a moment.”

Sydney smiles. “That’s great, Jack.” 

“It’s passed now.”

“Do you want to tell me any more about it?”

“Not really. It was not a big deal. Fleeting.”

It’s been a stressor for him, for years, that somehow in his recovery from his overdose, he’d lost his ability to feel anything for anyone. That he can’t get that part of himself back again. 

“Well, if you decide you want to share more…”

“I just,” Jack pauses. “I don’t.”

“That’s fine. Thank you for telling me.”

Jack nods. His knees are suddenly willing to bend again so he sinks into the soft leather chair. 

Sydney smiles and makes her way back into her chair as well, grabs her notepad. Jack is aware that she knows him far too well.

“So, Jack, what else?”


	5. Kitchen

Junior year. By the end of this season, he needs teams to already be showing interest. So Jack runs, and lifts, and skates, and studies plays, and eats exactly what he’s supposed to. Shitty makes him come to breakfast with the team and Johnson makes him talk philosophy at odd hours. He schedules a regular appointment with Sydney every two weeks, texts home every day, and thinks about hockey during every waking hour. 

When classes start, he allows himself a few hours a day to do his work, and then he’s back at Faber. He exists by routine, hardly even hears the chirps anymore (except Shitty, Shitty can always get to him).

However, it’s most definitely not a part of his routine to come home to banging and clattering in the kitchen, or to the scent of something other than stale beer or microwave mini-tacos. 

Jack hears Ransom whoop, and Shitty’s deep voice, and then that soft Georgia lilt, Bittle’s voice. Bittle. There’s the clatter of dishes and another laugh. Jack stands still for a moment, almost steps to the door to join in, but stops himself. No. He eases past, keeping to the shadows in the hall. He has reading to do, and nothing that smells that good is on his diet.

When he comes down two hours later, it’s quiet. Shitty is alone in the kitchen with a poli sci book, highlighter in hand and a slice of pie at his elbow. 

“Jack, my bro.”

Something feels off. Jack looks around more carefully. “What happened in here?” The room is sparkling clean, dishes put away, keg settled neatly into a corner, table clear. 

“Bitty. Apparently, our Southern gentleman makes kitchens functional just by breathing nearby.”

Jack’s mind flashes to Bittle during practice that morning. Gorgeous spin move, perfect pass, then flat on the ice in a panic. “He is also a liability who collapses onto the ice when a breeze touches him.”

Shitty shrugs. “Granted. But, fuck it, Jack. Look at the damn kitchen.”

“It’s...nice.”

“Gave him full Haus privileges. Bless that kid. I mean, shit, who even knew we had an oven?”

Jack rolls his eyes. “More pie?”

Shitty gives him a look and then brandishes his fork and takes a long, luscious bite. “So much more,” he says, mouth full.

Jack takes a seat at the table next to him. “I don’t know why you voted for me as captain when you don’t listen to anything I say.”

Shitty puts down his fork and leans back in his chair. “Jack, I listen to you. You know I do. I love you, bro, moods and all. But sometimes, a man’s just got to sit around with his buds, smoke a bowl, and eat a homemade fuckin’ pie that has nothing whatsoever to do with hockey.” Shitty takes another bite and goes back to his reading.

Jack stares at the clean room, letting Shitty’s words rattle around in his brain. If he's honest, he's thought about that first pecan pie more than once in the past weeks. He stands up and grabs a fork from the (organized? crumb-free?) drawer and pulls Shitty’s half-eaten pie piece over to claim as his own. 

“Don’t tell my dad,” he says through a mouthful of buttery crust. Shitty punches him in the shoulder and then helps himself to another piece.


	6. Dartmouth

**Parse** _First game tonight, eh?_

 **Jack** _Yes. At home vs Dartmouth_

 **Parse** _Let me guess. Smoothie, toast, five eggs, ten turkey sausage?_

 **Jack** _Food services hates me. Finishing the smoothie right now._

 **Parse** _Heh. You’ll be ready._

 **Jack** _Thanks_

 **Parse** _Aces management loves players who know how to manage their diet. Just saying._

 **Jack** _So what do they like about you?_

 **Parse** _Ouch_

 **Parse** _Check in after?_

Jack keeps his phone out by his elbow, even though he doesn’t know what more to say to Kenny. He doesn’t want to check in after (didn’t want to check in now, truthfully), but looking busy texting is working as a deterrent to being talked at by anyone else during breakfast. Most of them know to avoid him. He dreads game mornings.

Bittle walks by with his bowl of fruit and yogurt. “Morning, Jack,” he says quickly, and then darts to his seat next to Shitty. Jack watches him go. Bittle’s hair is especially mussed today, like he only just rolled out of bed, loads of little gold curls at his neck. 

Bittle looks over and meets Jack's eyes and smiles, and Jack realizes he might have been staring. He frowns at himself and looks down quickly to his phone again. Kenny is still trying. 

**Parse** _What time?_

 **Jack** _Not sure. Party after_

 **Parse** _Ah, right. College._

Jack closes his eyes and inhales hard. Damn Kenny anyway. He closes out of the conversation and jams his phone into his pocket. Jack can feel all of the eyes on him as he rises, shrugs on his coat, and heads out the door. 

*

After the game, Jack manages to beat most of the Haus home so he can lock himself in his room before the party gets going. Let them think what they want. 

Nine shots on goal, and none in the net. He sits at his window and plays the shots over and over in his head, recalculating angles, seeing all of the missed opportunities. It's hard to breathe through his own disappointment with himself. The noise from downstairs trickles up to him, but he hardly hears it. 

His phone buzzes. Shit. But it’s not Kenny.

 **Papa** _Bravo!_

 **Jack** _Merci, Papa. Un seul but._

 **Papa** _tout ce que vous besoin_

 **Jack** _Je sais. Even 1-0 is a good win, happy for Ransom_

 **Papa** _Who is the little guy with the assist?_

 **Jack** _Eric Bittle_

 **Papa** _He’s quick_

 **Jack** _Figure skater_

 **Papa** _Potential?_

Jack thinks about that for a moment. Thinks about Bittle’s sweet steal and soft pass, and how hard he’d hugged Jack during the celly, even though Jack could scarcely bring himself to hug him back.

 **Jack** _Je ne sais, Papa. Maybe._

Maybe.

Jack puts down his phone and looks back out the window again, trying to stop thinking so hard. The sounds of the Haus flood in: a huge cheer from the ground floor, footsteps coming up the stairs (Holster?) followed by a female voice and lots of giggles, music loud enough that Jack can feel the bass vibrating in his chest, Shitty barking orders between songs. The wafting smell of slightly burnt microwave popcorn. More footsteps and then someone pounding on his door and shouting, “Zimmermann!! You better be getting laaaid!"

In spite of himself Jack smiles, and thinks _College_ , and that Parse doesn’t even know what he’s missing.


	7. Potential

Jack thinks about the word “potential” for days after the Dartmouth game. They play well against Colgate the next night and Jack scores two goals (and a lead weight falls off his shoulders at that; he sleeps for nine solid hours after), but his mind keeps circling back to “potential,” to making the team truly great. 

Find the weak spots and make them strong. 

He watches Bittle in practice. When he’s not terrified, he can be brilliant: fast, tricky, and fearless. The kid can jump across the ice like a rabbit. He has great control of the puck, good eyes, sees plays beautifully. Jack can imagine how his size could be an advantage, especially against some of the lunks their opponents put out just because they are enormous. 

But Bittle can’t face those lunks. The team can’t use him. He collapses in fear. (Jack has worked hard enough on himself in the last few years to recognize that he is oddly jealous of Bittle’s ability to be so openly terrified, so public in his need for help. He can hear Sydney already: “Mmm. Interesting. Do you think you might be just as scared as he is?”) But Jack is the team captain. There’s potential. He needs the team to reach for it. Needs Bittle.

Bittle actually looks as if he’s going to bolt when Jack walks over and slides in next to him at breakfast. Jack’s heart is pounding rather harder than necessary, but he soldiers on.

“Bittle.” 

Bittle turns his big brown eyes on Jack, full of judgment. “Are you going to yell at me? Because I’d really rather you waited until after I finished my waffle.”

It’s not what Jack was expecting him to say. “I’m not going to yell at you.”

“Hmm. That will make a nice change.” Takes a big bite.

Jack hopes his cheeks aren’t actually visibly red. “Sunday morning. Checking clinic.” Jack has it all planned out, coordinated with the schedule at Faber, thought about what drills they'd run.

“What?”

“You and me. I’ll give you a call. Be ready.” 

"Okay."

There's a weird pause, so Jack starts to slide back out of his seat again, to leave Bittle in peace (he obviously doesn’t want Jack to stay and eat). 

As Jack stands, Bittle looks at him with a quizzical expression. Says, “This is you not yelling at me?” 

Before he can stop himself, Jack replies, “This is me seeing potential.”

Bittle lets out a little, “Oh,” that Jack hears as he walks over to the next table and sits down next to Johnson and his tray of bacon. Jack feels lighter, almost giddy, as he digs into his eggs and very pointedly does not look at Bittle for the remainder of the meal. 

“You’ve cheered up,” Shitty observes later.


	8. Dawn

Jack has always been a physical hockey player. He’s always enjoyed a good check, even in juniors long before he was supposed to. He’s more than willing to take a hit in order to get the shot, loves to slam into bodies to fight for the puck. A hard check is one of those rare moments in his life when he can just let everything out. 

It takes him a moment to get it; Bittle isn’t going to suddenly become like him. Jack’s initial plans for the checking clinic involve hitting Bittle from different angles until he’s fine with it, but after five minutes it becomes obvious that all of his plans need to be thrown out. 

“I just white out, Jack. I don’t even know if I can control it.”

“You can.”

“Jack, I know in the dim light of this ungodly hour it’s hard to tell, but I’m not exactly rising to the occasion.”

_Vif,_ Jack thinks. He's never met anyone before who can be literally crumpled against the boards in a heap, but still managing to stand up for himself. 

“You will. Let’s try a different way.”

They take a few laps around the rink, reset, and start over. Jack improvises. Has Bittle stand motionless while he skates past and gently bumps his shoulder over and over. Has them skate slowly towards each other, Jack nudging Bittle each time they pass. Stands still himself and gets Bittle to run into him. Nothing hard, just a little contact to help him get a feel for it. Once they get a drill set, they stay in it until Bittle can do it without flinching.

The dawn light is soft on the ice, and the slow, repetitive work is almost like meditation. Even Bittle gets quiet after a while, all nerves. He’s trying hard. Jack can see it. 

A few small kids and parents start entering the rink eventually, early birds for the youth tournament. Jack has Bittle stop, pull close. 

“One more try at a real check,” he says quietly. 

Bittle pales. “Can it wait until next time?" he asks. “I don’t think I can take any more today.” His hair is damp with sweat.

Jack hasn’t really considered _next time_. “Alright. If next time is tomorrow morning.”

Brown eyes open wide, and then roll to the heavens. “You’re calling me at 4 a.m. again, aren’t you?”

“Did this help?”

Bittle really seems to consider the question for a moment. “Yeah, I suppose it did. A bit.” 

“Then a bit more tomorrow.”

"Oh Lord."

Jack's unsure what he feels as they leave the ice. Proud? Frustrated? It's something he can't name. They go their separate ways, and Jack doesn't even ask if Bittle expects him to wait after they pack up to go. He’s certain the kid's seen enough of him for the morning, so he heads out on his own, and only realizes much later that he'd not even said goodbye.


	9. Family

“Your parents are coming down?” Sydney looks up from her notes and asks with her pointed nonchalance.

Jack nods. “Family weekend. They always come.”

“How are you feeling about that?”

Jack leans back in his chair, looks out the window to the fall colors gleaming outside the office. “Fine.”

“What feels good about having them visit?”

“I’ll be glad to see maman. I wasn't home much this summer and she was working.”

Sydney nods and jots something down. Jack tries to ignore her and continues. “Also, we...well, not _we_ but…we just have a lot of baked goods. At the Haus. It’s very welcoming. She'll like that.”

Sydney smiles, leans her chin on her hand and says, “So what will be difficult about having them visit?”

Jack sighs. He has carefully avoided thinking about the upcoming weekend. But this is what he sees Sydney for, right? “I don’t know. There’s always a fuss about my dad, of course. And I guess our record isn’t what I’d like, only five-and-three. My scoring percentage is so much lower than last season, and I'm short on assists. Last week I missed that easy goal when we were at Providence, so I’m putting in extra time this week to prepare, but…” he let’s his voice trail off.

Sydney is looking at him over her reading glasses, her face neutral. “Do you hear it?” she asks. “Are you listening to yourself?”

Jack closes his eyes. He hears it.

He makes sure that Sydney counts his pills carefully before the end of the session.

*

 **Parse** _Parents weekend, isn’t it? Say hello to Bob and Alicia for me._

 **Jack** _I will_

 **Parse** _Nothing like having mom and dad in the stands to raise the pulse, eh?_

 **Jack** _Nah. It’s fine._

 **Parse** _I'm sure you won't let them down._

*

Jack actually seeks out company the morning of the Yale game. 

It’s a gorgeous, crisp, autumn day- sun out, crunch of leaves underfoot. Jack takes an early run to clear his head. Families are already arriving. Holster’s out to breakfast with his dad, and Johnson is off on a day trip with his grandparents. Shitty doesn’t have any family members coming this time, so Jack has arranged for him to join his family for dinner after the game. 

Jack finds his remaining housemates sunning themselves (in knit hats and scarves, granted, but Shitty _is_ wearing shorts) out on the porch of the Haus. Bittle as well. He’s got a dusting of flour on his sleeve, and the air smells of baking apples.

Shitty is finishing up some dramatic exposition with emphatic arm gestures. “...but it’s all bullshit. If they’d read Ogbu, he motherfucking _illuminates_ the colonial aspects of institutional racism in education. Which, to be perfectly frank, is why they are all _dickholes_.” 

“Hey,” Jack says.

“Hi, Jack,” Bittle says. He stands up and then quickly sits back down again. 

”Should I ask?” Jack settles in on the steps next to Ransom. 

”Shit, no, son.” Ransom sighs. “That was the grand finale of the rant. Don’t you dare start him back up.”

Shitty reclines on his elbows and winks. “Nah, I’m good now. Just needed a moment to express my continued frustration with the fucking white patriarchy of this damn _institution of higher learning._ ”

“Don’t let me stop you.” 

Shitty shrugs Jack off with a grin. “So. Any word from the the invading Canadians?”

“Maman sent me a text before they left.”

“Your parents are coming, Jack?” Bittle asks, eyes wide. 

“Yeah.” Jack tenses up and waits for the usual follow-ups: when can he meet Bad Bob, and what was it like growing up with him, and it will be such an honor to play in front of him, etc, etc..

But Bittle doesn’t say any of that. “My mother is coming up, too. I hope y’all don’t mind if I bring her by to use the kitchen?”

Ransom is yelling something back to Bittle as he runs in to grab his pie (“Bitty, your all-access pass to the Haus kitchen is fully transferable to all close family members.”), but Jack has to sit for a moment and breathe in this small reminder that the world indeed exists beyond Bob Zimmermann.

“You had your game-day turkey sausage yet, bro?” Shitty asks, breaking Jack's reverie, and Bittle returns with a hot apple pie in his gloved hands, and Jack thinks that he just might survive Family Weekend after all.


	10. After Yale

Jack is not actually angry at Bittle. He’s not. Bittle won them the game. Jack knows he’s mad at himself, at his poor play and overthinking, at his sloppy stick work and too many penalties.

But when he and Papa bump into the Bittles after the game, Jack can’t look at him, can’t hardly breathe near him. His skin feels too tight, and he keeps replaying the conversation with Bittle before the game; how arrogant and superior he must have sounded, what an asshole he must look like now that Bittle’s the hero and he’s just Bob Zimmermann’s second-rate son. 

Bittle’s a figure skater who can’t even stay on his feet when he feels threatened. This is the team Jack is captain of, the path his horrible decision making has taken him down. 

He’s not angry at Bittle. But he’s furious at his brain for caring so fucking much about it anyway.

*

Shitty knows. Jack can tell. Shitty’s great at keeping up a conversation at any time, but he’s more than pulling his sociable weight over dinner with Jack’s parents, covering for Jack’s silences.

His mother knows too. She touches his shoulder or brushes a tuft of hair behind his ear over and over, just a little contact that makes Jack feel about seven years old. 

Jack cannot tell if Bad Bob has noticed. But then, Jack’s never really been able to tell much about how his father feels about things. 

Luckily, they are all tired, so dinner is a fairly short affair and then Jack and Shitty are being dropped off at the Haus.

Jack tries to ignore the looks between Shitty and his mother as they get out of the rental car, but he can’t help but overhear her whisper, “You’ll stay with him?” and Shitty reply, “I got it, Mother Z.”

Shitty gives Jack a look as they walk into the living room.

“I’m fine,” Jack says.

“Mm-hmm,” Shitty plops down on the disgusting sofa. “Sure.”

“I’m going up to bed.”

“Have a seat, Zimmermann.”

Jack takes a moment to remind himself that he doesn’t actually want to feel like this, and flops down into a chair. 

“So, first of all. Are you a danger to yourself right now, my man? Because we can call someone and get help.”

Jack’s face floods with heat. He starts to protest, then stops and actually tries to calm down, eyes closed. The little mental switch that he can sometimes flip goes click, and he can breathe a little better. “I’m okay.” 

“That’s good.” Shitty sits back. His shoulders relax and Jack realizes how worried he must be. “So can you explain it to me? Because last I checked, we won a great game with a clutch last second goal, but since then you’ve looked like we just found out that Soylent Green is people.”

Jack manages a snort and shakes his head. “I can’t.”

“Can’t?”

“Explain it to you. Not well.” Jack has tried, many times with Sydney, to describe the oppressive feelings of failure when they come. “Some thought sets me off and then I’m buried in my own head and have to dig myself out.”

“So are you out now?”

Jack thinks about the moment Bittle’s shot sailed into the net, and at the look on his father’s face from behind the glass. “Almost,” he says. “Mostly I’m just exhausted.”

“Well I believe an ‘exhausted almost’ earns you a night in Casa Shitty! I’ve got one half of a queen-sized mattress with your name on it.”

“Shitty, I don’t…”

Shitty holds up a hand in Jack’s face. “And I’m willing to snuggle if you need.”

“Shitty.”

“People buried in their own heads would do well to listen to their wise and brilliant friends, and not be alone.”

Jack can’t argue with that. And in the end it isn't hard to drift off to sleep, tucked in Shitty’s flannel sheets, and listening to the soothing sounds of Shitty’s gentle snores.

*

Monday, parents gone, a calm night back in his own bed. Jack tracks down Bittle after his world lit class, using the excuse of scheduling another checking clinic.

“Sorry I had to rush off after the game,” he tries, after Bittle has hesitantly agreed to skate the next morning.

Bittle smiles and waves off the apology. “Oh, don’t you worry, Jack. I know how it is with parents in town.”

Jack knows he doesn’t deserve such easy forgiveness. “It was a great goal, Bittle.”

Bittle’s ears get pink right under his blonde curls. “Nah, it really was all luck.”

Jack opens his mouth to say more, but Bittle cuts him off. “But...thanks for saying it anyway.” The pink goes all the way to his collar.

*

"I dug myself all the way out today," he says to Shitty later, and Shitty slings his arm around Jack's neck and squeezes him and says, "I'm fucking sure you did, superstar." 

Jack honestly doesn't know what he's done to deserve his friends.


	11. Movie Night

It’s Haus movie night. Ransom has suggested a monthly theme; they are currently on sci-fi films of the 1970s. Jack is settled into the big chair with a pile of reading for his Reconstruction and the American South course, ready to give forty percent of his attention to _Logan’s Run_. 

Shitty’s run upstairs for something, and Ransom and Holster are arguing over the remote when Bittle pokes his head in the door.

“Bitty!” Ransom shouts, and Holster uses the distraction to yank the remote away from him and slide it under his shirt.

“Hey, y’all.”

“You watching with us?”

“Um…well...” 

It’s so unlike Bittle to be speechless that Jack looks up, curious. 

“What’s up, Bits?” Holster asks.

“Could I talk to y’all? For a minute.”

“Yeah, man. Speak!” 

Bittle is still strangely hesitant. “Did um...did Shitty say anything today?”

Ransom snorts and rolls his eyes. “He said a lot of things, actually. For instance, about an hour ago he wouldn’t shut up about Steven Seagal.” (Barely loud enough for Jack to hear, Holster murmurs, “Who’s Steven Seagal?,” and then Ransom mutters back, “For god’s sake, don’t let Shitty hear you say that.”)

Bittle is still hovering, pinched and awkward, in the doorway, hunched up like his shoulders are going to climb into his hair. 

Jack takes pity on him. “Is something the matter? Was Shitty supposed to tell us something?”

Bittle doesn’t look at him; his gaze is directed out into space. “No, no. He wouldn't have. It was silly of me to think he might have, actually.” Bittle squares up his shoulders and walks into the room finally, right next to the television, like he’s about to make a speech. For some reason, Jack’s heart starts pounding, hard. 

Bittle breathes deep and speaks. “Alright, everyone. Now, I made notecards, but Shitty said they were excessive, so I left them in my room, which was maybe a mistake? Because now I’m not exactly sure how to say it so I’ll just say it, I guess, because really what I want to tell you is that I’m gay.”

Bittle’s buried the lead so far down that it takes Jack a minute to process what he’s just heard. 

It’s quiet in the room for one moment longer than it should be, and Jack’s just about to open his mouth to say something (what? he’s not sure what will come out; his body is iced panic), but then Bittle rambles nervously on. “I mean, this may not be a complete surprise, what with the figure skating and the baking and the...being me. But I’ve never been out before, anywhere, so I’m trying...”

Ransom leaps to his feet and rushes Bitty, throwing his arms around him. “Gay? Well, shit, son! This means we need to rethink our entire game plan around Winter Screw!”

Holster’s up too, grinning and giving Bittle’s shoulders a squeeze. “It’s true, Bits. We may not have the _personal_ expertise to offer, but our data files on the hook-up-worthy humans of Samwell University are by no means limited to the female gender.”

Ransom and Holster continue to accost Bittle, rattling off possible dates for him to consider. Bittle’s eyes are huge and he is smiling a little surprised smile. Jack knows it’s already late for him to say anything, so he swallows hard and in a pause in the action, adds, “That’s great, Bittle. That you told us.”

“Thanks, Jack,” Bittle says, and smiles at him, and Jack’s stomach is in his throat. 

Shitty comes back downstairs and there’s another round of excitement. Holster convinces Bittle to stay (“I may just be a heterosexual man, but if there’s one thing I know about _Logan’s Run_ , it’s that Michael York is hot.”), and Ransom starts jotting down a ranked list of eligible bachelors for Bittle's later consideration. Bittle himself happily hops off to the kitchen to make some bagel bites. The entire time, Jack is not sure if he can actually move his body, but as no one else seems to be noticing, he just waits it out and tries not to panic. 

Tries not to panic because for a perfect, crystal-clear moment after Bittle’s announcement, he’d almost opened his mouth and said, “Me, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A couple of links for my most random references this chapter, if you need 'em:  
> [Steven Seagal](http://stevenseagal.com)  
> [Logan's Run](http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0074812/)


	12. Three a.m.

Jack doesn’t sleep after _Logan’s Run_ , can’t get his mind to turn off or his body to rest. It’s not just the bizarre, dystopian movie night (although that’s not helping) or the unnatural amount of bagel bites he’s nervously consumed (also: not helping).

He’s had his suspicions about Bittle, even made assumptions. But having it stated out in the open is totally different. Bittle had looked so relaxed after, lounging on the couch between Shitty and Ransom and beaming at the endless, gentle chirping about his future dating life. 

Jack’s chest is still tight, his head full of questions. He gives up on sleep and turns on his light. Maybe he can get a little reading done, so long as he’s awake anyway. 

As if on cue, Jack’s text alert sounds. 

**Parse** _In Vancouver. Have you followed this kid McPherson? Their new winger? Plays like you, Jack. Hockey twin._

Kenny. Of course.

Jack quickly tosses his phone into a pile of laundry across the room. But it’s too late; he’s far too exhausted to stop his thoughts from taking the predictable turn towards the past, where they’ve been threatening to go all night. To all of the mad fumblings in Kenny’s basement, Jack's bedroom. To Kenny’s mouth all over his throat (oh god), hands on skin, and hard lines of muscle. To getting off with him for the first time and realizing _this is it for me, yes, I’m like this_. 

But mixed up in those memories are all the day-afters, as well: his family, and the crushing weight of expectations, and the world watching him, and hockey, and Jack’s gotten very good at telling himself one data point does not make a rule. 

Of course Kenny would somehow know to text him right now, the bastard.

Jack hauls himself up and retrieves his phone from a tangle of jeans. Falls back on the only way he knows how to talk to Kenny anymore. 

**Jack** _So then I assume you got your asses kicked?_

 **Parse** _Shit, Zimms. Why you up at this hour? Isn’t it three a.m. there?_

 **Jack** _Reading for a class._

 **Parse** _There’s so much wrong about that, I can’t even_

Jack remembers a time when Kenny’s texts weren’t just veiled commentary about his failures, but that memory’s getting a bit hazy. 

**Jack** _Avoiding the question? Canucks must have slaughtered you._

 **Parse** _Go to sleep, Zimms_

Jack gladly takes the sign-off as an excuse to shut down his phone entirely. 

It feels like he might be able to close his eyes now. He flips the light off and settles back against the pillows. 

The fact is, Jack really likes Bittle. And just because Bittle is who he is, and Jack is who he is, it doesn’t mean anything. They can be friends, _are_ friends, and Jack’s brain can just take a fucking break already and let it be. Ransom and Holster have set him up with this nice tennis player for the Screw, and that will be fine. Nothing’s set in stone.

Jack still doesn’t get to sleep until dawn.


	13. Study Session

**Lardo** _meet at jerrys- thirty minutes_

**Jack** _When did you send this?_

**Lardo** _just come now, zimmermann- i have coffee for you_

*

Jack had been aware that he was missing Lardo while she was in Kenya, but it’s only now that she’s back that he realizes how much. She’s reading when he arrives at Jerry’s, and she doesn’t put her book down, just gives him a nod and shoves his mug of coffee towards him with a grunt. 

“You know, there’s a clock on your phone and it records the time of each text right there _on_ the text.” Lardo doesn’t even look up.

“That’s useful,” Jack replies.

“Mmm-hmm,” she says, and sips her coffee.

He sets his bag under the table, unwraps from his layers (so much spring snow this year), and settles in. He’s brought a huge pile of reading with him as well, hoping, like dozens of afternoons last year, that they’ll just sit together and read and get too many refills. It looks like that’s what Lardo has in mind too. Jesus, Jack missed her so much. 

“I missed you too, Zimmermann,” Lardo says suddenly, after a while. “And I’m ordering food.”

Jack stops highlighting. “Sounds good.”

The food arrives (omelette for Jack, eggs benedict for Lardo), and they give up on their work for a few minutes. They take bites, and sip coffee, and then Lardo clears her throat.

“So. You still hearing from Parse?" she asks through a bite.

Jack swallows hard, then nods. They’d been in the fifth hour of an epic study session in the library last year during finals, and Kenny had started texting, and suddenly Jack had found himself lying next to Lardo on the floor of the library and telling her all about him (well, not _all_ , but he’s fairly certain she suspects). That’s this thing about Lardo. She notices everything. Also, Jack just tells her things, and she remembers.

“How’s that been?”

“He’s kind of an asshole.”

She shrugs and takes another bite. 

“You got your eye on anyone this year?” Jack pretends that her two questions are unrelated, then pauses too long, can’t think of a lie fast enough. 

She looks up. “Jack Zimmermann.”

“Not really. Rans and Holtzy set me up with this girl for Winter Screw. It was fine.”

“Ooo, _fine_. Stop with all the romantic deets.”

“What about you?”

“Deflection. Nice defense, Zimmermann,” she rolls her eyes and drinks more coffee. “I made out with almost everyone in my study abroad group at some point.” Jack snorts, and she shrugs. “Our group got weird and close. Like, too close. It’s good to be back.”

“Shitty kept us updated on your exploits. He talked about you all autumn.” 

Jack’s fully aware of the long pause that follows, smiles to himself as he takes another bite of omelette. 

Lardo eventually emerges from her mug of coffee. “Going in after this to sharpen skates and do some laundry. Hope I remember how it all works.”

“Back to the grind.”

“Heh. Literally.”

“I’ll come with you. I want to lift this afternoon.”

"Fine by me."

Their plates are cleared away, and companionable silence falls over them again. Lardo gets out her book, and Jack pulls out his packet of readings, and it's like she's never been away.


	14. Blueberries

The coaches start playing Bittle on Jack’s line during practice one morning.

It should be no big deal, nothing more than a shift in strategy, but the change sits in Jack’s stomach like lead. 

Crunching through the snow back from Faber with Shitty and Lardo, he can’t stop himself from saying, “I don’t think it’s working, having Bittle practice on my line.”

Shitty looks at him askance and says, “Bitty? What the hell are you talking about? The kid had a fire lit under his tiny little ass today.”

“It just felt...off.” Jack can’t really put into words what feels wrong. It’s not that he’s worried Bittle’s going to flop, not anymore. It’s that he needs to keep track of Bittle all of the time, watch out for him; he’s a massive draw on Jack’s attention. 

Lardo doesn’t say anything, but Jack sees one of her sharp eyebrows arch up. 

“Jack, my bro, you destroyed us in the scrimmage, and mostly because Bitty fed you sweet shit over and over,” Shitty goes on.

“I have film of it,” Lardo adds.

“So if that’s you feeling ‘off’, I’m all in favor of it.” 

Jack kicks at a dirty pile of snow left by the plows. “Never mind. It was only practice.” 

*

Bittle’s at the Haus later, working in the kitchen, Shitty nearby with his feet up on the table, when Jack comes home from class. 

“Hail, Sir Zimm of Canadia,” Shitty calls out from behind his history of medieval politics text, and waggles his toes. 

Jack stops in the doorway. The heavy lead weight in his gut hasn’t lessened much since the morning. 

“Jack! I’m taking a poll. Favorite berries. Care to weigh in?” Bittle is bustling around covered in a dusting of flour, hair an untidy mass, and the counter a clutter of bowls and chopping boards. 

Jack swallows to catch his breath. “Blueberries have the most health benefits.”

Bittle shakes his head, says to Shitty, “Now why couldn’t I see that answer coming?”

Shitty looks up from his book at Jack. “Favorite, Jack. Not the best for you. The one you like the most.” 

“Same thing.” 

“Is it?” Bittle asks. There’s a smear of what must be berry juice across the smooth edge of his jaw. Jack can't stop looking at it. 

The lead weight gets even heavier.

***

That weekend the coaches play Bittle on Jack's line in the game. 

Jack protests. He doesn't like it one bit. Bittle's a distraction. He's not ready. They haven't practiced enough. He's too small. He's.

They crush Quinnipiac. Jack scores three goals on Bittle's three assists. Jack can hardly celebrate his own hatty until Shitty skates over and crushes him in a hug and whispers, "Sometimes, you don't even know what's good for you, eh?" and Jack finally feels the knot in his gut dissolve. Shitty catches Bittle up in the celly too, and they pile onto the rest of the team, and Jack wonders why everyone could see this but him. 


	15. Concussed

Jack realizes halfway to the hospital that he should not be the one driving, He’s shaky and lightheaded, his mind still frozen on the ice. He grabs hold of the steering wheel harder, so he can feel the texture pressing on his palms, leans forward in his seat, and keeps going. Rans and Lardo are quietly talking in the back, and Holster is in the passenger seat with his phone out, telling Jack where to turn. 

Shitty went along with Coach Murray when the team doctor advised they take Bittle in to get further checked out. It’s small comfort that Bittle’s not alone. 

Jack had been in perfect position to watch Bittle’s head bounce off the ice, his neck at that precarious angle that Jack can’t unsee. And then him lying there, so still (Rans says it was only a few seconds; felt like hours). 

Bittle had moved all of his limbs, and talked to the doctors, and even helped himself up and off the ice. Jack had witnessed all of that as well, but through his white haze of fear none of it had seemed very real. 

“This is just a precaution,” Lardo says quietly, and touches Jack on the shoulder. 

“I was supposed to be looking out for him,” Jack replies, and drives faster. 

*

Even before rehab, Jack had never liked hospitals; health was religion in his family and hospitals meant failure. Even stepping foot inside the emergency room feels like an admission of defeat. 

They sit in the grungy waiting room. Lardo flips through the sticky-looking old magazines and Ransom and Holster start a game of chopsticks. Jack’s body won’t settle in his plastic chair; he paces the room. He can’t stop seeing Bittle’s helmet fly off, hear the thud. They get quite a few curious glances, the three of them still in various stages of sweaty gear from the game, Lardo with a new blue streak in her hair.

Jack is so twitchy, he gives Lardo a nod, and steps outside for a moment. Pulls out his phone. His hands are still unsteady.

 **Jack** _how did you manage when a teammate got hurt?_

There’s no response for a while, but Jack can’t get enough of the fresh air, so he perches himself on the edge of a bench by the sliding glass doors. It is bitterly cold. 

Eventually, his text alert sounds.

 **Papa** _What’s happened?_

 **Jack** _Bittle. concussion I think._

 **Papa** _Is he getting looked at?_

 **Jack** _Yes. I’m at the hospital. Waiting._

 **Papa** _Then you are doing what you should be. Jack, tu ne peux faire plus que ça_

Part of Jack knows his father is right, that he’s doing all he can, but the ache of guilt in his chest is just as convincing.

 **Jack** _it’s not enough_

Before his father can answer, Jack sees Holster and Ransom rise from their chairs, so he quickly pockets his phone and dashes back into the waiting area. 

Coach and Shitty have emerged with Bittle, who is looking mostly like himself, just more pale and a little drooped. Rans is giving Bittle a gentle side hug and Holster is patting his shoulder. 

“I mean it. Y’all didn’t need to bother about coming down here!” 

“We’re a team, Bits. It’s not a bother,” Lardo replies. 

“Oh goodness, Jack as well!” Bittle says with a smile, catching sight of him. “Such a fuss.” 

Jack can’t move from the doorway. He is so relieved, he has to bite the inside of his lip until it stops shaking.

*

Shitty suggests that Bittle stay the night at the Haus so that he can be looked after. The doctor wants someone to wake him up every few hours to be sure his symptoms don’t get any worse. He’s on a heavy duty dose of anti-inflammatories. They set him up in Shitty’s room. Johnson decorates with throw pillows and dimmed lights and extra blankets while they are on their way back. 

Jack doesn’t say anything to anyone, just runs out for a moment while Bittle is getting tucked in. Comes back to the Haus in ten minutes with an enormous black coffee, and he already feels better able to breathe. He grabs his notes, a pile of books, and then tracks down Shitty.

“Bits is already snoozin’” Shitty says as Jack appears in the kitchen. 

“I’ll be the one to stay up, check on him.” 

“Jack, we’ll take turns, dude. That way we can all get some rest. You look wiped.”

Jack holds up his coffee. “I wasn’t asking.”

Shitty narrows his eyes at Jack. “Yes, yes, noblest of Captains. I get it. You feel responsible for the kid. But you still need your goddamned sleep, Jack.”

“Shits,” Jack says, his mind completely clear for the first time since Bittle went down, “I’m going to be up all night no matter what. I told Bittle I had his back, but I didn’t. So I need to do this now. I have to.”

Shitty stares at him for what feels like an hour, and then stands up and wraps him up in an enormous bear hug. “Damn, I fucking love you, Jack Zimmermann,” he says. Jack hugs him back.

Later, after Jack gets himself comfortable at Shitty’s desk for the night, he pulls out his phone for a moment before getting to work on his paper. His father had sent one more text after Jack's last, back at the hospital.

 **Papa** _it is enough. caring is enough._

Jack looks over at Bittle, his face sleep soft and still, his breaths coming at a regular count that Jack is already memorizing, and hopes that his father might be right.


	16. Appointment

"So in the end, how did this season go for you?” Sydney is leaning back in her chair, hands steepled beneath her chin, peering at Jack over the top of her glasses.

It’s only been a week since their loss in the playoffs. Jack isn’t sure he’s ready to reflect on anything yet, but he doesn’t say that to Sydney.

“Um. We really improved as a team. We’ve got good chemistry now. Added some players that made the rest of us work to improve.” He thinks of Bittle, still mostly resting and recovering. They’d set up a schedule of teammates (Jack had thought of the idea and Shitty had set up the actual system) to read parts of his assignments to Bittle so he doesn’t fall too far behind while he cannot do any work. Johnson has also gallantly agreed to quietly hum Beyoncé at Bittle by request while he can’t listen to music. 

Jack pulls his attention back his session. “We made it to the playoffs, so that says something.”

Sydney holds up her hand and makes a little disapproving sound in her throat. “That’s fine, Jack, but that was not my question. How did it go for _you_?”

“Oh.” Jack feels his cheeks warm as they sometimes do when Sydney catches him on his bullshit. “For me. Well, my stats in the second half of the season were my highest since before…”

“No,” Sydney says, interrupting. “I’m not asking about your stats, either. How did this season feel, Jack? For _you_.” 

Jack breathes through his nose, the way Sydney has taught him, and gathers his thoughts. “I’m disappointed with myself. It feels...I let myself down.”

“Because you lost?”

Jack considers this, then forces the words out. “Some. But mostly...I’ve been here three years, but I've never let myself think of this place as more than a stop-over on the way to my professional career. And it isn’t. I don’t want to think that anymore.” _Maybe this is the most important thing in my life, being here and knowing these people,_ Jack thinks, but can’t bring himself to say. The smallest voice in the back of his head adds, _maybe even more important than hockey._

Sydney is quiet, and then says, “Thank you, Jack. We can work on that.”

Jack nods. 

They shift in their seats and the mood shifts. Sydney pulls out her notes and flips through. “We have a few minutes left. We haven’t talked about relationships for a while. Any developments there?”

Now Jack is sure that his face is reddened. “Not really.”

“Any other sparks, like you felt earlier this year?”

“No others, no.” It’s not a lie. Sydney frowns and jots something down in her notes.

Jack manages to escape back into these spring sunlight without having to say anything more about that.


	17. Senior

Jack has managed many different living situations in his life. He’s spent months on the road in generic hotels, bunked with total strangers for tournaments, slept in the same room as a recovering alcoholic named Ben for ten weeks. Even this summer, he’d attended camps in three different cities, all with various housing set-ups and people to get to know. Hell, he’d lived across the hall from John Johnson for two years, survived the constant burning of incense, the four pairs of slippers always lined up outside Johnson’s door, the midnight visits to discuss whether or not humanity should be finding an alternate planet to inhabit or if animals have laws or if written language was established by aliens. He’d even learned to appreciate the kitten poster.

Eric Bittle should not be getting under his skin like this. 

Jack doesn’t know how he does it, but somehow in the week they’ve been back at the Haus for pre-season, living with Bittle has been impossible. Jack’s just so damn aware of him all the time: he’s baking sweet rolls, he’s reading in the living room, he’s planning a game night, he's singing in the shower, he’s standing in his doorway smiling, he’s wandering into Jack’s room to say good night. He’s everywhere. 

Jack shouldn’t have snapped. He knows it, and he knows he needs to apologize, but he hasn’t decided what he wants to say yet. (He also should have thought twice before pulling back the shower curtain and learning the hard way that someone showering in your home, with your shampoo sitting right on the little shelf next to him, is very different than someone showering in a locker room.)

Bittle has been avoiding him since morning skate. Actually, everyone has been avoiding him since morning skate, when he thinks about it. Jack settles into the armchair in the empty living room. His phone buzzes in his pocket.

 **Parse** _you back at school Zimms_

 **Jack** _Yes. Pre-season games start next week. Practices this week._

 **Parse** _i was just talking about you with our GM again, he wants to meet you_

Jack’s stomach does a little lurch, and he’s not sure if it’s interest, annoyance, or terror. 

**Jack** _He can call my agent for a meeting_

 **Parse** _he’s talking about this year, Jack. if you’re looking to get out of that place_

Jack’s chest tightens and his hand balls up into a fist. He quickly types a response ( _Alain can get all of the details_ ) and shoves his phone into his back pocket. He ignores the buzz of Kenny’s response.

Bittle comes bopping in the front door from what looks like a run. He’s flushed and sweaty and wearing headphones and extremely short shorts. He catches Jack’s eye, says a quick, “Hey,” and then darts away up the stairs. After a minute, Jack can hear the shower turn on, then off. 

There’s learning to live with baked goods and singing in the shower, and then there’s not even being at Samwell at all, and that’s not even a choice. Jack feels a rush of panic, suddenly crystal clear on what he needs to say. He walks cautiously up to Bittle’s door to be sure he’s had time to get dressed again after his rinse. 

“Bittle?” Jack knocks and the door swings open.

“I was trying to be quiet, Jack, I swear.” Bittle’s pulling on a t-shirt, and his hair is wet and mussed. Jack stands in the doorway, uncertain.

“It’s fine, Bittle. I just wanted to say I’m sorry I barged in on you before.”

Bittle stops his primping and looks at Jack. “You are?”

Jack leans against the doorframe, trying to decide how to say what he needs to say. “I’m trying...I’m trying to be...not like that.” That’s not quite right. “I’m trying to be fine with...singing in the shower. And I’m not good at it yet, but I want everyone to be able to, you know...sing in the shower, if they want to.”

Bittle looks like he needs to think that one over for a minute. “Do you mean...literal singing? Or is this like, some deep and meaningful metaphor, Mr. Zimmermann?” 

Jack smiles. “Well, for you, it’s literal.”

Bittle smiles then as well, big brown eyes meeting Jack’s gaze. “Well, thank you, Jack. I’ll try to be more sensitive myself. I know it was early. I just get carried away when the acoustics are so perfectly suited for Queen B, and I simply cannot hold back.”

Jack snorts. “I can’t say I understand, but...I’ll try to.”

There’s nothing more to say, and the little happy silence between them stretches out for a few moments. Jack realizes he doesn’t want to leave but that he can't think of a single reason to stay. 

“So,” Bittle says, getting abruptly busy again, tidying up some laundry from the floor. “I think we are the only one's home. I was fixing to do some writing for the vlog. You’re welcome to just come in here and hang. If you want to.”

Jack actually can’t think of anything that sounds better. “Yeah. Let me get the book I'm reading.”

On the short walk back and forth to his room, Jack feels light enough that he might float away.


	18. Permission

Jack texts Lardo and Shitty to meet him at Annie’s. 

“What’s the emergency, Zimmermann?” Lardo says, and she plops down her bag and settles in across the table. 

Shitty is right behind her. “Yeess. Avengers, assemble! What’s the sitch, Jack?” 

It had seemed like the right thing to do to text them both. He’d seen Bittle return to the Haus, silent and somber, face tear-streaked, after what Jack knows was a meeting with the coaches. On a rare impulse, Jack had texted; he needed help. But now that they are here, Jack doesn’t know what to say. 

“How do you think the team is looking this year?” he tries, just to say something. He receives twin sighs in response. Shitty flops back in his chair.

“This is _please meet me right now at Annie’s. It’s important_?” asks Lardo dryly, her eyebrows raised almost to her hairline.

Jack clears his throat and tries to put his worries into words. “Well. There’s a new goalie to bring up to speed, and the frogs are bickering all the time. And..I just thought...well, about Bittle. That’d he’d be okay this year.”

“Ah,” Lardo says, and Jack does not like the knowing look on her face one bit.

Shitty huffs and throws up his hands. “The kid had a concussion and spent the summer in fucking Georgia, Jack. Geez, give him time to get back in shape.”

“No that’s not…” Jack can’t look at Lardo as he says it. “I think he might need our help. I’m...worried about him.”

There's a long silence (feels like an eternity to Jack), and then Shitty shouts, "Damn!" Loud enough for other tables to look over at them. "Of course you are, bro. Sometimes I forget you are not an asshole, and that I am one."

“You’re not an asshole, Shitty.”

Lardo gives Shitty a side-eye and looks like she’s about to respond, but then she doesn’t. 

“Weren’t you coaching him last year, sometimes? Bitty, I mean,” Lardo asks at last, her tone completely shifted into helper mode.

“Yeah.”

“Did it help him?”

 _Helped both of us._ “Yeah. I think so.”

“Then shit, Cap. That seems like a good place to start again, right?” Shitty adds, sitting up in his chair. “Have you talked to Bits about it?” 

Jack bites at his lip, picturing the peaceful, early mornings with Bittle at Faber. “No. I will, though. Good idea.”

The waitress comes then, and they order, and Jack manages to change the subject to other things.

*

Later, when he tells this story to Sydney, she looks at him over her glasses and says, “Sounds like you needed permission to do what you planned to do anyway.”

Jack has to remind himself he pays her because he wants her to tell him stuff like that.

*

Jack finds Bittle in the locker room after their scrimmage, still taking off his pads. 

“So, does 5 a.m. still work for you, or do you have other plans?” Jack says, casual as he can. He’s practiced the line in his head all afternoon.

Bittle looks up at him, and Jack knows that he's right, that Bittle is not himself at all. "Sorry, what was that?" 

"We can make it 4 a.m. If that works better for you."

Jack can see Bittle processing what Jack is offering. He presses his lips together, tight, and then shakes his head. “Jack, you don’t have to do that for me again.”

“I’ll knock on your door at 4:45 tomorrow morning. Be ready.”

Shitty elbows Jack in the ribs as he walks back to his stall and whispers, “ _So_ not an asshole, dude."


	19. Frost

They don’t speak of it, ever really, but Jack knows Shitty vividly remembers how hellish Jack’s first months at Samwell were. He’d been a walking knot of tension, hardly sleeping for weeks, cross and uncooperative in practices, missing classes. He’d had to take a leave of absence for ten days in the middle of the first semester to go home and decide whether he could actually handle balancing school and hockey and his anxiety on his own. Thankfully, new medication and finding Dr. Sydney Masseret had allowed him to return, determined to make it all work, and then he’d never really looked back.

One of the small consequences of this rocky start, however, was that Jack had been away when his class of frogs were initiated onto the team. 

Shitty gently reminds him of this lack over some of Bittle’s apple pie one evening in the kitchen. “So, Captain Zimmermann. I’ve thought of one of the ways you can live out your promise to, and I quote, ‘have our backs’ this season.” 

Jack chews and swallows. “What’s that?”

Shitty jumps up onto his chair brandishing a fork in Jack's face, startling Jack so much he almost falls backwards. “Strip down to your boxers, freeze your magnificent ass off, and finally get fuckin’ _hazed,_ baby!” 

Jack tries a variety of excuses (he’s twenty-four, he’s the team captain, he might have a meeting that night, he doesn’t want to distract from the actual frogs, etc.) but Shitty will hear none of it.

“You haven’t ever truly been a member of this team, bro. It’s like you’re a stranger to me. It’s now or never. Haze, or get off the pot.” 

Jack thinks about what he’s been working on with Sydney all year (“You have to find ways to _be here_ , Jack.”), and agrees.

*

**Jack** _[I need to move the meeting with the Bruins.]_

**Papa** _[That might not be easy.]_

**Jack** _[I have something important with the team. I can’t miss it.]_

**Papa** _[This could hurt your chances, if they think you are not taking them seriously.]_

**Jack** _[I can’t miss it. Sorry.]_

**Papa** _[Call me later]_

*

Jack is really cold, and really blindfolded, and really being led around in the dark. It’s poor Bittle who has the thankless job of dragging his shirtless carcass around campus, and he’s obviously not cut out for hazing in the slightest.

“I can give you a sweater, Jack. Do you need it?”

“I’m fine. I signed up for this, remember?” 

“I think I see frost forming on the grass. Oh lord.”

Jack had decided to have one beer to kick off the festivities, and has promised himself one more once he’s survived. He has the warm calm of a nice buzz, which has made every part of this evening so far slightly hysterical. Especially Bittle, who has kept Jack in a state of gentle amusement for what seems like miles now. 

“Where are we?” he asks, and Bittle’s hand tightens on his arm. He’s never touched Jack for this long before, and in his happy state, Jack’s rather too aware of it. 

“Don’t you dare tell that nosy fucker anything, Bitty!” Shitty shouts from up ahead. 

“Fine. I can’t tell you anything, you miserable hazing victim!” Bittle says, loud, and Jack can’t hold in a little laugh. Then under his breath, Bittle whispers, “We’re just passing the library though, heading back to the Haus. Don’t worry.”

“You are terrible at this, Eric.”

Bittle stops walking for a moment, one hand solid on Jack's elbow, the other against his back. Jack’s just about to ask what’s wrong when Bittle clears his throat and says, “Yeah, I suppose I am,” so sincerely that it makes Jack giggle again. “And you are silly when you've had a beer, Jack.”

“I know.”

After a few more minutes, Bittle slows him down for a moment and Jack feels the scratch of a wool sweater being draped over his shoulders. Jack grins and thinks that whatever the Bruins had on offer is nothing compared to this.


	20. Stories

Morning on the ice, thin early winter light slanting through the big windows at the end of the building. Jack loves Faber so much. He’s glad he’s finally allowed himself to notice this year.

Today they are just taking lazy laps of the ice, occasionally bumping into each other. Bittle is handling each unexpected jostle with ease (not even a flinch today), and he’s managed to catch Jack off-guard a couple of times himself. As they skate, Bittle asks about some of Jack’s worst checks over the years, and Jack is surprised at how many stories it turns out he has.

“...and the worst was in the finals when I was eighteen. This enormous d-man just slammed me into the boards, not even trying for a legal check, stick up, really wanting to hurt me. Bruised my ribs, deep. Pushed me into this other kid, blades first. Got him across the arm. Crisse, so much blood, eh? He ended up with ten stitches.”

Bittle has slowed down, and when Jack looks back, his eyes are huge. 

“Ooo, sorry, Eric. You okay?”

Bittle gives him a curious look for a moment, and Jack wishes he could take that last story back. But then Bittle snaps out of it and skates to catch up. “Perhaps it's time for a change of subject. Shall I entertain you with my greatest kitchen disasters, instead? For instance, there was the great salt instead of sugar fiasco of 2011. Quite harrowing.”

Jack laughs, and then gives Bittle a solid knock in the shoulder. Bittle catches himself and skates through, and Jack feels a little bubble of pride catch in his chest. 

“How about I toss out a puck and race you for it,” Jack suggests.

“If you don’t want to hear my stories you can just tell me, Jack Laurent Zimmermann,” Bittle says, but Jack can tell he’s teasing. When Jack throws down the puck, Bittle’s off after it like a dart, and Jack has to dig deep to catch him.

*

Jack’s only changed his skates while Bittle prefers to fully gear up, so he will be in the locker room for a few minutes. Jack doesn’t mind waiting for him out in the courtyard.

He quickly checks his phone. Text from Kenny. Jack doesn’t have it in him to listen to another round of Parse’s not-so-subtle hints that he’s wasting away here at Samwell. He deletes without reading and settles back onto the bench.

The dawn light illuminates the bare trees around the sports complex, gold against a dark grey sky. It looks like a photograph, still and peaceful. If Jack had a camera, he’d take a few shots.

Bittle trots out then, right into the middle of the scene, golden and glowing himself. Jack stares for a moment, then shakes himself ( _pull it together, Jack_ ). Stands and slings his skates over his shoulder.

“Hey, Jack,” Bittle calls.

“Eric.”

Bittle gets that curious look again, his brows pulled together slightly. He says, “Do you know you keep…” then let's the rest of his thought go unsaid.

“You okay?”

Bittle is quiet for a moment, then shakes his head. “Yeah, I’m good. Great, actually.”

They head off together towards the Haus.

“You know, your cooking stories don’t actually sound too bad, Bittle,” Jack admits as they walk.

“You may have heard a rumor that I actually tell numerous, fascinating cooking stories on my very own vlog, Jack,” Bittle says. 

What Jack actually means, he realizes, is that he likes hearing Bittle talk, but he doesn’t know how to say that. Instead he asks, “Have you finished the reading for seminar?”

“Oh lord, no. That woman cannot stop assigning reading, can she? I’ll be in the library all day.”

“I have a phone call with my agent at nine. But maybe I’ll meet you there later.”

“Okay.” 

Bittle gets quiet for a moment, then says suddenly. “You are really going to do it, aren’t you? Sign a big contract and be a professional hockey player?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“That’s...that’s amazing, Jack.”

Jack hasn’t felt that there was any other path open to him for so long, and he's never considered his future _amazing_ , well, maybe ever. Seeing it through Bittle’s eyes for a moment makes him smile.

“I guess it is,” he says. 

They walk on side-by-side through the golden morning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Jack doesn't call Bittle "Eric" in canon, but I just love him calling him Eric so much...on his way to "Bitty" eventually. :)


	21. Georgia

What do you really want next year?” Sydney asks.

It’s the question Jack is not sure he knows how to answer anymore.

*

His father wants him with one of the Original Six. Maman wants him in Montreal, so she can worry less. Parse wants him in Vegas for his own reasons. None of this is communicated to him directly, just through hints and suggestions and tones of voice. (Kenny's been a little more obvious over the last year, but Jack’s been giving him only terse responses or outright ignoring him all autumn.) On the other hand, his agent, Alain, wants Jack to sign wherever they’ll give him the most money, and he’s more than willing to say that loud and clear, to anyone who’ll listen.

After three years of living every moment just to be noticed by the scouts, now that it’s happening Jack finds he’s struggling to care very much. He just wants to skate with his team and pay attention to his classes and live his life. Maybe enroll in a photography class, or finish the cycle of American History courses he’s been pursuing, or take the train to Boston with Shitty just for fun. Instead he’s fielding calls several times a day and sitting in meetings and having to awkwardly turn down inappropriate gifts he’s not even interested in accepting.

 _Do you even want to know what the Avalanche are offering?_ Alain texts one night, while Jack is studying in the living room with Shitty, Bittle, and the new goalie, Chowder. _I think it’s an insult._

 _I don’t want to move to Colorado_ Jack texts back. He stares absently at the little curls of hair at the back of Bittle’s neck (he needs a trim), and thinks that actually, he doesn’t really want to move anywhere.

*

Georgia Martin contacts him by phone from Providence in the early winter. They talk about hockey, mostly. She played herself, at Brown, ruptured her Achilles’ tendon sophomore year, and got into team management instead. She’s been with the Falconers from the beginning, adores the team. It’s obvious. She calls him again, a week later. Jack doesn’t dread hearing from her, which seems significant.

For a moment during her third friendly phone call, he wonders if she might be calling so much because she's hitting on him, personally, but then she mentions her two kids, and then a few moments later, her wife. Jack’s face warms with embarrassment at his own assumptions, then warms further when he thinks about what it means about the team that she is an assistant GM. What it might mean for him.

She comes up to Samwell in person after that, goes to a game, takes him out for lunch and a run. The good feeling he gets from her doesn’t change. She’s even kind to Bittle when they bump into him, complimentary, not dismissive at all. She’s paid attention.

“You won’t want to be too far from the community you’ve built for yourself here, will you, Jack?” she asks.

“No.” Jack looks out at the familiar campus, stretched along the riverbank. “No, I won’t.”

(He realizes, much later, that he mentally signs with the Falconers at that moment, even though it’s months of agonizing decision-making before papers are actually signed and announcements officially made.)

No one wants him to go to Providence, except himself. He tries that answer out with Sydney, the next time she asks.

"I think I want to make my own way," he says.

Sydney looks down and flashes one of her rarest of rare smiles at her notepad, and Jack's pretty sure he's starting to do a few things right. Finally.


	22. Red Phone

"Yo, Jack." Ransom grabs him by the sleeve as they pass on the stairs, pulls him down a few steps and to a stop. His voice drops low and his eyes keep shifting up to glance in the direction of bedrooms upstairs. “You and Bitty have a fight today or something?”

“No.” In fact, they’d spent what he thought had been a great afternoon in the kitchen together, Jack doing his best to completely massacre Bitty’s thoroughly researched recipes. “We baked our final projects for Atley. Why?”

“It’s probably nothing. Bitty just looked…” Rans searches for the word. “...upset? Agitated? I don’t know. So I asked what was up and he muttered something that sounded like ‘Jack,’ and went to his room. I figured you maybe needed some kick-ass teammate intervention. I can get on the red phone and dial up the save-this-friendship squad. For reals. We're ready. We have uniforms.” 

Jack’s chest tightens with panic. His mind starts spiraling through memories of the day spent together, trying to find a moment he might have offended Bittle or made him uncomfortable. 

“No, it’s okay,” he manages to say to Rans, who still looks very concerned as Jack hops away up the stairs two at a time.

Jack sits for few minutes in his own room, staring at Eric’s closed door. Before he lets himself think too much about it, he gets up and knocks.

“Come on in.” Bittle sounds normal enough through the door. 

Jack pushes the door open slowly. Bittle’s sitting up on the corner of his bed by the window, an afghan tucked over his knees, reading. Music is on, quiet, in the background. 

“Oh. Jack,” Bittle says, tucks his thumb in his book and closes it, sits up a little. “Hey.” 

“Hey, I just wanted to…” Jack starts, tries not to falter. “The pies look great. Almost cooled.”

Bittle smiles. “Professor Atley’s going to love them. I just vlogged about it, actually. A truly Colonial culinary experience.”

“You can't fool me. I now know that just means a lot of lard,” Jack says, and his breath is coming a little easier. Bittle does not seem to be angry with him. In fact, he laughs a little. “But it went okay? Nothing wrong? I talked about myself too much, eh?”

“Nah, Jack. Not at all,” Eric says, his voice kind of soft. “It was a great day.”

It’s quiet for a moment, and Eric is still looking at him, so Jack has to look at his shoes. “So I was thinking…I want to thank you. For your help. Maybe buy you a coffee.”

“Jack, that’s ridiculous. You’ve been helping my sorry self for two years. You don’t owe me anything.”

“Okay, a mocha?”

Eric’s face is still and thoughtful, like Jack’s asked him his views on civil rights or climate change, like what he says next might really matter. It makes Jack’s heart pound for a moment. Then Eric takes a hard breath, looks right at Jack, and says, tentatively, “Peppermint mocha?”

“Is that an actual thing?”

“Jack Zimmermann.”

“Fine, a peppermint mocha.” Jack is so relieved, he’s ready to disown Ransom for worrying him over nothing.

“Did you mean right now?”

“Whenever you want a break.” 

Eric is already tossing off his blanket and pulling on his shoes. “Save me from Thomas Hardy, please.”

When they walk out of Eric’s door, however, they practically crash into Ransom, Holster, and Shitty, who are all there, unconvincingly lounging against the walls like they just happened to be in the area. 

“Hey! What are y’all doing in the hallway?” Eric asks as he wraps his scarf round and round.

"Yeah? What _are_ you doing here?" Jack echoes, looking pointedly at Rans, who turns his gaze away and shrugs.

The squad exchange glances. “...Loitering?” Shitty tries. Jack might need to kill them all.

“We’re going out for coffee,” Eric says, and looks at Jack for a moment before he says (reluctantly?), “Y’all are welcome to come along.”

Holster clears his throat. “Well, I could use a cup.” Rans and Shitty nod in agreement. Abruptly, from downstairs, Chowder’s voice echoes up. “Can I come too? I love peppermint mochas!?” And suddenly, they are in the midst of a bustling crowd easing into coats at the door to the Haus, Holster shouting, "Who's texting Lardo?" and Shitty yelling, "On it," and Dex and Nursey arguing over whether it's cold enough to wear gloves.

Jack catches Eric's eye amongst the chaos, smiles at him and shakes his head at what they've started. Eric doesn't look away and, unless Jack is imagining it, let's out a little sigh before being pulled back into conversation. Jack doesn’t have a clue what that means, but once they get out the door, Eric walks right next to him, and for now, whatever else might be going on, he’ll take it.


	23. Preparations

**Parse** _@ Boston this weekend. you still ignoring me?_

*

Shitty takes a couple of guys to go pick up the kegs in Jack’s car. Jack agrees mostly because if he doesn’t have to go, he’ll have time to work out and use the gym showers (the Haus tub is otherwise occupied at the moment), and then get back in time to help with final set up. 

When Jack returns home, Eric is baking like it’s Thanksgiving. The whole Haus is warm and buttery, with a hint of cinnamon. Voices swirl out of the kitchen.

“Damn, now we need extra booze, Bits! No one can get properly shit-faced while also ingesting four thousand calories of pie.”

“Sure they can, Shits.” That’s Lardo. “And then they can puke it up all over your floor.”

“No one will be vomiting any of my pie, thank you. That would be rude.” Eric. Jack smiles.

“Bittle, this is Epikegster. There’s no holding back the vomit. Maybe just stop with the dark-colored fruit fillings…”

Jack continues past. His job is to cordon off the upstairs, lock all non-emergency-exit doors, clean the bathroom (minus the tub), and then retire peacefully to his room, only to emerge if needed for Haus defense. Or at least, that’s his plan. 

“Jack!” 

Eric bursts into the bathroom, where Jack is gloved up and scrubbing at the permanent brown stains in the sink as if they might get cleaner. “Shitty just told me you’re not coming tonight!”

Jack is overwhelmed for a moment at the intensity of Eric’s expression. “Not exactly. I’ll be here.”

“In your room?” Eric’s eyes are huge, and his brows are pulled tight in disbelief.

Jack shrugs. “A big party is not my thing, Bittle.” He’d tried a few times, last year, but he’d only been stressed and lonely. Shitty’s only interested in hosting, Lardo’s always embroiled in some sort of drinking game tournament, Ransom and Holster are just trying to get some action. Johnson would sometimes sit in the corner with him and talk, but Johnson’s gone now. “Everyone’s distracted. I don't really drink. Too many strangers.”

“But _I’ll_ be there,” Eric says, as if this solves the problem. 

Jack’s chest tightens a little at the idea. “I don’t think…”

“Come on, y’all gotta at least make an appearance.”

Eric’s face is ridiculous, mostly puppy dog begging, but with a hint of something more steely and serious underneath. Jack almost lets out a defensive chirp about it, except that he can see how sincere Eric is. He really wants Jack to come, and with a little fluttering rush in his gut, Jack really wants to be there, too. 

“Okay. Maybe.”

Eric wipes his brow in mock relief and beams. “Lord, Jack Zimmermann, you do put a person through fits. Now, you get back to work and I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Bye, Bittle.” Jack puts his head down before Eric can see him grin.

“I think I can hear your phone buzzing in your room,” Eric says, leaning back in from the hallway.

“I’ll check it later,” says Jack, and gets back to the scrubbing.

*

 **Parse** _landed at logan_

 **Parse** _i’m actually starting to worry, zimms_

 **Parse** _if this is just you not checking your phone_

 **Parse** _seriously zimms_


	24. Pills

Jack’s entire body is numb. He slams the door behind him (Eric is out there, just outside, but Jack can’t face him, can’t find out what he heard) and sinks to the floor. His body won't stay up.

Jack has tried to describe this sensation to Sydney before, like he’s in a glass aquarium, the air around him thick and syrupy. His ears feel plugged and his eyes keep blinking and blinking and he can’t catch his breath. It’s like he’s drowning, like he's being crushed by the weight of the sky on him all the way up into space. Jack can still feel Kenny’s hand along the top edge of his jeans, pulling at the belt loops, Kenny’s mouth leaving a trail of fire up his throat, Kenny kissing him, and Jack forgetting for a moment, and kissing him back.

Jack knows how badly he’s fucked this up. He's needed to tell Kenny that the thing that had flared up between them, so long ago, has been over for years. But that's not true. All the texts and chirps and surprise visits; it has never been over for Kenny, and Jack knows it. Maybe he hadn’t realized how much Kenny still felt until his hands were on him? Until the honest sadness of his _I miss you_? Until Jack had to push him away? But that doesn’t feel truthful. Jack knew. He knew.

And Parse knows him so well he could counter-attack with devastating accuracy, hit every insecurity in half a minute and then saunter off to enjoy the party at Jack’s own fucking house. Merde.

His bottle of pills is staring at him from across the bedroom (all twenty-two, counted by Sydney the day before). Jack stares back at it, heart pounding, sensation starting to ease back into his limbs. 

Kenny’s final words echo again in his mind. Jack imagines telling his father that he’s signed with the Providence Falconers, can’t stop that scenario from running on a loop for a while. He can see every line of the blank, disappointed look on Papa’s face. But the more the he repeats it in his head, _"I’ll be playing with the Falconers next season, Papa"_ , the more calm he gets, the more the soupy air clears and he can breathe. 

Maybe Kenny doesn’t know him that well anymore, actually.

Jack manages to pull himself up, grab the pills, wrench open the window, and hurl the bottle, hard, into the bushes below. He hears someone down at the party (the party, right; sound starts to trickle back in) shout “Yo, Zimmermann!” at his silhouette before he retreats back into his room and curls up on the bed. 

After a while, Jack’s not sure how long, there’s a little tap on his door. Maybe he imagines it, it’s so faint, and he can’t possibly answer it. But someone is checking on him, and that’s something. 

After a long time, Jack sleeps.

*

The alarm at Jack’s bedside goes off at it’s normal hour. Jack had planned to get a run in and finish packing. He needs to leave for the airport by nine to catch his flight to Los Angeles for his next meeting with the Kings. 

It takes him a full minute to remember what had happened the night before. When he feels that first sweep of choking regret, it doesn’t knock him down, and that seems like progress. Remembers he needs to go retrieve his meds and take his daily, and keep the count just right for Sydney.

Jack quietly pulls on his running gear, the routine soothing, and slips out into the hall. The house is passed out, silent, eerily full of people. It smells of beer and stale bodies and a faint hint of cinnamon. He has a brief, horrifying thought that Kenny might still be here somewhere, but then he realizes, no. He'd come for Jack, and would have needed to get out as much as Jack had needed him to leave.

Across the hall, Eric’s door is closed, but there is a pillow and blanket left out along the wall, like someone had stayed there most of the night, and had only just now gone in to sleep.


	25. Photography

They learn how to use the darkroom the second week of class, after they’ve all shot at least one roll of film. The first assignment is to shoot images that showcase contrast. Jack prints a shot of the trees outside of Faber, dark outlines against a stormy grey sky.

Eric and Lardo chirp him mercilessly over his choice to take the traditional black and white film course, rather than digital photography (“What century do you live in, Mr. Zimmermann?” “I hear you’re mastering the cutting edge of technology...from the Civil War.”), but the minute Jack gets into the darkroom, he knows he’s made the right choice. The peace, the quiet, the orderly, patient steps. The control he has over the result. The miracle when a perfectly captured moment starts appearing where there had been nothing moments before. 

His mind is pleasantly distracted from contracts and negotiations and Parse by the mathematics of calculating f-stops for various filters. He checks out lenses from the visual arts department, then goes on long runs with his camera, looking for content to shoot. 

Most of the time, though, he just casually captures images around the Haus, on roadies, at practices. Each week is a new design principle (line, texture) and a new technical concept (exposure, shutter-speed). Jack books regular time in the dark room, and starts a portfolio of prints.

After four weeks, he’s meant to sit down with his work, reflect on his strengths, and generate goals for the second half of the class. There’s a reflection paper, and a form to fill out to commit to the class show at the end of the course. It’s due Monday, after a roadie to Princeton (they win, Jack scores twice). Jack thinks he can get it finished on the bus, pulls out his binder of prints, and looks.

Jack can’t write about what he actually discovers, however.

He’s printed seventeen finished photos so far, and eleven of them are of Eric Bittle. The line of the back of his neck, his silhouette, outlined against the morning light on the ice, a close-up of his laughing face, dotted with flour. Jack had not noticed as he’d chosen them, week by week, day by day, from the hundreds of shots he’s taken, but Eric is his main subject, dominating everything else by far. In fact, the only other people who appear are Shitty and Lardo in one, and Holster in another. The remaining pictures are landscapes.

“Tabarnak,” he says out loud, flipping through his binder again and again, but there’s no mistaking it. His skin starts to tingle and he looks up to the small curls of blonde hair that he can see from the seat in front of him. 

Eric looks back at his voice, stretching and then turning all the way around in his seat. “What was that, Jack?” 

Jack closes his photo binder. “Nothing. Just doing some work.”

“You sure? You look a little stressed.” 

Jack’s heart is racing. “I’ve got a lot to do.”

“Tell me about it. Have you seen this book? Lord, what was I thinking” Eric says, holding up his current enormous novel for his Modern French Literature class and shaking his head before he plops back onto his seat. 

Jack looks at his own pale reflection in the dark windows of the bus, and tries to keep breathing.

*

Jack walks into Sydney’s office for his appointment on Tuesday. He’s lived with his new knowledge for two days.

“I’m in love with someone,” he says immediately. The words have been waiting there on his tongue.

“Good afternoon, Jack. That’s big news. Why don't you sit down?”

Jack takes his usual place in the leather chair, his skin still electric from saying it out loud. Sydney crosses her legs and sits forward, one hand supporting her chin. “Thank you for trusting me.”

Jack forgets sometimes, how much he trusts Sydney. 

“So. Are you going to tell this person?”

Jack sits back in his chair to think about that. Thinks of the ease of knowing Eric, at how natural it had seemed to him that Eric would somehow sneak homemade cookies and a note into his luggage before break, at how often he finds himself in Eric's room at all hours, at how none of this is really a surprise. “I can't.” 

Then he adds, just to hear himself say it, “Not yet.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was not 100% true to canon here again, because I know that it's implied in Ngozi's amazing art that Jack is taking color photos for his class, not the darkroom B&W I've imagined. So, canon divergence, just to be clear. I like to be clear. Also, I just spent some time with the Brown course catalog to be sure that film photography is still being taught. I'm happy to report that it is.  
> *hugs all wonderful readers*


	26. Shitty

"Buckle up, Jack! I’m taking you out to dinner!" Shitty yells up the stairs. 

Jack is on page twenty-seven of revisions on his first draft for his senior thesis seminar. He does not need to be asked twice. 

“I'm a really dull writer,” he admits to Shitty as they pull on coats and scarves.

“Add some sex scenes. Ooo, maybe an orgy,” Shitty suggests, with a gentle shoulder check. 

Jack considers. “Well, some of Lincoln’s early letters are a little spicy.” 

“See? I have the best fucking ideas.”

*

They decide on the Indian place next to the bookstore. Jack craves a big pile of naan and Shitty wants tikka masala. They’ve been eating here together for four years, but as of yesterday, they know Shitty’s going to be in Cambridge next year, and suddenly it feels like the end of something.

“I asked Lardo if I could buy one of her paintings,” Jack says. “She’s letting me choose one, but refuses to take any money.”

“Yeah, good luck with changing her mind. About anything.” 

Jack knows better than to ask Shitty more about Lardo. He’s pieced together that they’ve been hooking up, off and on, for two years, and that they are crazy about each other, but that Lardo doesn’t believe in monogamy or labels, and Shitty would never force the matter. But it’s painful to watch, especially now that Jack’s sitting on his own mess of feelings.

“Sometimes I’m so jealous of you, bro,” Shitty says, his mouth full of naan. 

Jack snorts. “Why?”

“You never get yourself caught up in any bullshit romance drama. You hook up with a girl, it’s no big deal, and then you end it.”

Jack is taken aback for a moment. “Is that what I do?” 

“Well, not often. But I don’t think I’ve ever even seen you get moody about anyone, ever, and you’re the fucking king of moods, Zimmermann.”

“I’m not sure I ever really _felt_ anything for any of them,” Jack says, truthfully. The moment is right, and he thinks about telling Shitty everything, right now, at this noisy corner table over cheap Indian food. But he just can’t. “Sorry if that sounds cold.” 

“Nah, feelings are feeling, brah. If only we could control ‘em.” Shitty takes a huge bite of palak paneer, keeps talking. “Someday, Jack, you are going to fall for someone, and it will be a damn privilege to witness. You will be the most stupidly loyal partner ever. Shit.” Shitty shakes his head, says wryly, “Just thinking about it makes _me_ want to date you.”

“You’ll work it out with Lardo, Shitty.”

“I’m glad someone thinks so.”

They eat in companionable silence for a few minutes. Jack’s mind keeps drifting to tomorrow morning’s checking clinic with Eric, and how he can keep himself together, stay relaxed and casual (he’s been working long hours to diversify his incriminating photography portfolio for the last two weeks). He can only guess at what Shitty’s mind is working on, but he thinks it might not be too different. He wants to laugh at the two of them, but then he’d really have to explain himself, and he’s just not ready.

“You want to go to the gym with me later?” Jack says instead, trying to kickstart the hockey part of his brain, as a distraction. “I want to get through page thirty-five, and then I’m going over before bed.”

Shitty sip his tea and nods, considering. “Final push. Two more games and we’re in the playoffs again, Cap.”

Jack glares at Shitty, then quickly knocks on the table and then his own chair for good measure. “Jinx fine, Knight. Pay up tomorrow.”

“You are more superstitious than Chowder, dude, and that kid wears the same pair of Sharks underwear in every game.”

Jack rolls his eyes and pulls off another big chunk of naan. “You know, Shitty, there are some things in life that I really didn’t ever need to know.”

“Nah. That’s what friends are for, bro. I don’t know what you will do without me next year.”

Jack doesn't know either.


	27. Plans

Jack wishes he could bottle whatever magic happens to teams sometimes, when everything starts clicking at just the right moment, when every shot seems to find it’s mark and everyone’s weaknesses are suddenly revealed as their hidden strengths. If he could bottle it, it wouldn’t be to share either. It would be to hoard, all for himself, just to keep the possibility with him, all the time, of that heady feeling of perfection. 

The last time he’d felt like this was in the lead up to the Memorial Cup with Kenny. God, they were an unstoppable force. Jack almost texts Kenny a couple of times during Samwell’s exquisite run up to the playoffs and into the Frozen Four; he always remembers to stop himself just in time. It’s nice to know his memories aren’t tainted by all that has come between, that Jack can still recognize the rush of euphoria, the complete and total letting go of himself he’d felt on the ice back then, holding onto Kenny with all his strength and knowing they’d played the best hockey of their lives. 

So they grow their playoff beards and complain and chirp like always, but Jack knows every member of the Samwell team is riding the wave with him, in their own way. 

And Bittle. Eric. Bitty. He nervously bakes and talks and taps into his phone and then bakes some more. Jack’s getting used to living with his feelings, has made his own set of rules for their friendship (near but not too near, chirp but not flirt, touch only when necessary, etc.) to keep boundaries clear. It is such a relief to discover that he can actually feel emotional attachment again that just knowing is enough; he has no expectations. Eric is his friend and will be his friend, Jack hopes, for a very long time. Sometimes he catches himself looking too long, or sitting too close, but he’s managing. 

He is also aware of the deep tug of misery that underlies all of this, the knowledge that, even if they go all the way in the playoffs, this is the end. The end of the season, the end of college, the end of these relationships, at least as they exist right now. He tries to ignore the endless, choking stream of unknowns that thought unleashes into his brain, and instead live only for the next game, the next shift, the next moment.

“Do you have a plan for yourself if you lose?” Sydney asks, and Jack’s prepared for her. He outlines his plan (be there for his teammates first, talk with his parents, exercise, don’t forget meds). She nods and “hmms” her way through his recitation, and takes notes throughout.

“I’m glad you have a plan, Jack. But sometimes, even the best intentioned plans are hard to follow when emotions are involved.”

Jack dwells on her words long into the night, and thinks about Bitty.

*

They lose. 

The buzzer sounds and the score is irretrievably, irreversibly set. No last minute goals to save the day, no miracle passes, not even a final desperate shot to maybe, _maybe_ send them to overtime. He’s failed. No amount of consolation, or pats to the back, or _“Hard fought, Cap,”_ dissolves one tiny piece of the rock that lodges in Jack’s chest. And Sydney’s a genius, because he can’t even complete step one of his plan, can’t even bring himself to enter the locker room, can’t even make it to the end of the corridor.

He steps out of skates, pulls off his jersey. The air is thickening into soup around him.

Jack doesn’t know he’s crying until Eric is miraculously there, pushing through the heaviness, wrapping his arms around him in the dark, and he is so intensely what Jack needs that the real sobs come then, deep and ugly. Jack knows he should be embarrassed and angry with Eric for coming after him, and at himself for letting him, but he’s not. He’s grateful and overwhelmed, and after a few minutes, he let’s himself reach up and hold on to Eric’s arm like a lifeline.

They sit there for what feels like hours, just quiet. The distant echo of coaches’ speeches and showers and post-game chatter slowly dies down. Doors slam, and plans are shouted into the concrete echo chamber of the corridor. They hear Shitty’s voice, worried, “Did you see where they went?” and Lardo’s, “Leave it for now, Shits, they’ll come back.” Jack starts to be able to breathe again as silence descends and all he can hear is Bitty’s breathing, and his own. 

Eric shifts against him, eventually, and Jack shivers at the feel of his body pressed up against him. “I want to go for a walk,” is what Jack manages to say. Then he doesn’t think, just leans his own head down against Bitty’s and sighs. 

“I’d like that, too,” Bitty says from Jack’s shoulder. “I’m afraid that will require us to move.” They still sit there for another minute, resting against each other, and Jack’s breath gets shallow again.

 _This is different than friendship_ , Jack thinks, but he can’t even allow himself to ponder what more that might mean. 

*

Once they are changed, and Bitty has convinced Jack to at least text his parents and Shitty, they head onto the riverside walk, side by side. The street lamps illuminate the path in bright patches. The crowd from the game has dispersed, and it’s quiet and calm. Jack has an intense desire to hold Eric’s hand, to touch him again, and the effort to resist is a welcome distraction from the dark thoughts trying to overrun his brain.

Bitty’s phone is buzzing like a hive. He doesn't check it, which Jack finds more remarkable than almost anything else that has happened this evening.

After a while, Bitty says, "I was just thinking, next year on this day, you'll be playing in the NHL, maybe even in Providence. Lord, I could be watching you on ESPN."

Jack can't speak for a moment, then manages, "Or maybe you'll be there. I could get you tickets."

"If you'd want me to," Bitty says.

"Bittle. Of course I'd want you to," Jack says, and if he could, he'd buy the tickets that moment, to be sure of it.

They walk on.


	28. Decision

**Jack** _[Papa, I’ve made my decision about next year.]_

 **Jack** _[I want to talk to you in person. Can you Skype?]_

 **Papa** _[I’m available. But this is your life. I support you, whatever you’ve decided.]_

 **Jack** _[Calling now.]_

*

 **Parse** _read the news. congrats._

 **Jack** _It’s the right place for me._

 **Parse** _well, i think we firmly established that you coming to vegas would have been a shitshow, so i’m just glad you didn’t wind up here_

 **Jack** _I’m sorry about everything, Kenny_

 **Parse** _not as sorry as i am, zimms. we can both be real fuckers, eh_

 **Parse** _so are we talking again_

 **Parse** _or are you still ignoring me_

 **Jack** _Now I’m just thinking about how sweet it will be to get on the ice and kick your skinny ass next season._

 **Parse** _shit, zimms. it’s on._

*

 **Lardo** _do you like being surprised?_

 **Jack** _Depends. Why?_

 **Lardo** _there may be a large number of hockey players at the Haus when you get home. like, all of them_

 **Lardo** _and Falconers' shit everywhere_

 **Lardo** _and possibly a cake. with Falconers' shit all over it. you didn’t hear it from me_

 **Jack** _Bittle, eh?_

 **Jack** _Should I act surprised?_

 **Lardo** _do what you need to do. BUT DON’T BREAK BITTY. I like that kid._

 **Jack** _Don’t worry, Lards. I like him too._

*

They end up on the back deck after a while. It’s a warm spring evening, one of the first that really feels like summer is on the horizon. Most of the team has gone home, piled with leftover slices of cake from Bitty. Though he’d never admit it, the actual party, with toasts and congratulations, was a bit much for Jack, but this is just right: Shitty, Lardo, Holster, Ransom, and Chowder sprawled out in chairs (three of the five passing a bowl, the other two nursing beers, no one talking much), Bitty bustling in and out with snacks and drinks. 

Jack has his camera, and he’s lazily taking shots. The light is perfect, with sharp contrast and glowing brights. He gets one of Shitty laughing, and one of Holster with his arm draped around Ransom that Jack thinks might make him tear up when he looks at it more closely. 

“When’s your show, Jack?” Lardo asks. She’s sitting on the ground with her head resting on Shitty’s legs, and Shitty’s combing his fingers through her hair. 

“What show?” asks Chowder eagerly, from where he’s sitting cross-legged on the deck, his beer held neatly in front of him. 

“Photos, Chow. It ain’t West Side Story,” Rans chirps.

“It’s next week. But no one needs to come,” Jack says as he snaps off a couple more of Lardo before she notices.

It’s too quiet for a moment, so Jack looks out from behind the lens. Every set of eyes is on him. “What?”

“We’re all planning to come, Jack. Good gracious, this boy,” Bitty says, shaking his head as he walks over and hands another iced tea to Jack.

“I’m only showing two prints.” It had honestly never occurred to Jack that his friends would attend. He’s showing one landscape and one portrait of Bitty, and suddenly that seems too private; they'll be able to see right through him. 

“Jack, we’ve seen you with that camera as often as we’ve seen you on the ice this winter,” says Ransom. 

“Sometimes you’ve even had the camera _on_ the ice,” Holster adds with a nod. (Rans throws a balled-up napkin at him and mutters under his breath, “What the hell is that? How does that add to my comment?” and Holster elbows him back and shrugs and takes a big swig off his beer.)

Shitty closes his eyes and reclines on his deck chair. “Careful, Zimmermann, or we’ll start believing you have _dimensions_.” 

“Don’t tell anyone in Providence. They think they’ve signed a robot,” Lardo slurs, half-asleep, and there is general chuckle, and the subject changes, and Jack settles into one of the old plastic chairs, still a bit off kilter thinking about what his photos might reveal.

Bitty is suddenly right there behind him. He places a warm hand on his shoulder and whispers in Jack’s ear, “Sorry. If you really don’t want us to come, you just say, alright? I’ll keep ‘em home.”

God, the feel of Bitty's breath against his cheek and the quiet way he’s looking out for Jack, even with his best friends. It’s too much. Jack reaches up to take hold of Bitty’s hand, then notices what he’s doing and changes the motion to a pat instead. “No, it’s fine if you come,” he whispers back, and means it. His hand stays there, resting on Bitty’s for a moment, until he can’t stand it and pulls it away. 

*

Later, Bitty knocks at Jack’s open door and leans against the door frame, like he does almost every night. Jack stops typing for a moment, pulls out his earbuds to say goodnight.

“You really did it, Jack,” Bitty says. “A professional hockey player. Is it weird that I’m proud of y’all?”

“It’s nice,” Jack says, his cheeks warm.

“Well then, I’m so proud of you, Jack Zimmermann, you would not believe.”

“Thanks, Bittle.”

There's a pause, and then Bitty says, in a strained voice, "I keep thinking how I won't be saying goodnight to you much longer."

Jack's been thinking that every night as well, and the lump in his throat threatens to choke him. All he can manage to say is, "There's weeks left, Bittle."

"I know. It's just..." Bitty gets a little thoughtful frown, looks away for a long moment. "...nothin'. You sleep well, Jack."

"You too. Good night, Bittle."

*

They all come to the photography show the next week. Bitty stands in front of his own image for a long time, and Jack can’t bring himself to ask him what he sees.


	29. After

Jack holds himself together until somewhere around the Engineering building, when he realizes he can’t actually keep running anymore on his jellied legs, that he can no longer ride the flood of adrenaline that’s been keeping him upright. 

George and his parents are waiting, and Papa has texted twice about traffic, but Jack stops and sits on the steps of Cole Hall to try and regain some equilibrium. His bravery is shot. He’s breathing hard and still in his graduation gown, which suddenly seems utterly ridiculous. In fact, if he’s not careful, he’s going to start _thinking_ , and he can feel a bubble of hysterics waiting just under his breastbone, eager for any excuse to break free.

There's a buzz and he looks down, surprised to see that his phone is still gripped in his hand. He can hardly feel it; his nerves are flooded with the feel of Bitty’s lips pressed against his own (oh god, he did it), and the warm heat where Bitty’s hands had grabbed hold and pulled him in when he’d (dieu merci) _kissed him back_ , and... 

Every single atom of Jack’s being wants to turn around, run back to the Haus, and run his hands over every inch of Bitty’s skin to be sure he’s made himself perfectly, vividly clear. Now that Jack’s declared what he wants, he's swamped with fear that he’s already done something to ruin it. He ignores the new text from his father, calls up Bitty's number, taps in a message ( _I meant it._ ), and hits send before he allows any more doubt to creep in. 

It takes a heart-stopping minute to hear back.

 **Bittle** _me too_

A breathy, sobbing laugh escapes, and Jack reads that tiny text over and over and lets himself feel it now, that he’s really done it, and that it is a mad miracle, because Jack said _I meant it_ and Bitty replied _me too_.

 **Jack** _When is your flight?_

 **Bittle** _i’ll be at the airport in an hour_

 **Jack** _Call when you are home?_

 **Bittle** _it will be late_

 **Jack** _I'll be awake._

 **Bittle** _so will I_

Jack thinks he might be idiotically grinning at his own phone, but when he looks around there’s no one nearby to notice. 

*

Jack floats through the rest of the day in an odd, otherworldly state. His family gives no indication that they think he is acting out of the ordinary, so he just keeps going, hoping he’s not giving himself away. They have dinner with George on College Hill in Providence, and then spend a few hours pushing furniture around and unpacking boxes in his new place. 

It’s so abrupt, how everything in his entire life has changed in one day, but for the moment, he’s surviving it. 

*

Jack takes a deep breath and clicks _Answer_ and Bitty appears on his laptop screen. It’s very late. He looks exhausted and rumpled (gorgeous), sitting on an unfamiliar bed in an unfamiliar room, and Jack is suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that this is going to be really fucking hard. 

“Hey,” Jack says, and wants to reach through the screen so much that it hurts.

Bitty’s eyes are huge, staring out at Jack. His lips press hard together (his _lips_ ) and it looks like he’s about to say something, but then he lifts up a hand, covers his smile, and closes his eyes for a moment, like it’s too much. 

Jack knows he should speak, but everything he wants to say is a bad idea at this point; so, it’s quiet and he is in love. 

Finally, from behind his hand, Bitty whispers, “Oh my god, Jack.”

Jack feels that, low in his gut. “Yeah.”

It’s another long quiet. Then Bitty takes a deep breath and asks, with a bit of cheek, “So when’re you comin’ to Georgia?”

Jack’s body thrums at the thought. “You want me to?”

Bitty nods. “I do have some time available...tomorrow?” Still teasing.

Jack smiles and shakes his head. “I can’t tomorrow, but hang on…” He pulls up the schedule George just sent. “How’s July 2nd?”

Bittle's hand drops, his brows pull together. “Are you serious, Jack Zimmermann?”

“Yes.” He’s not sure when he’s ever been this serious before.

“You’ll come here?”

“I'll come wherever you are, as soon as I can.” He’s started searching flights on his phone while they talk.

When Jack looks back at the screen, Bitty is staring at him so hard, like he's trying to see inside. "Jack? What in heaven’s name happened? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I’m thrilled, but I didn’t think...what did you…” 

Jack hasn't really let himself think about those moments just before, running back to the Haus. He does now. “I just...woke up, and realized that I could be happy,” Jack says, and it’s the truth. 

“Oh.” Bitty’s voice is almost inaudible, and he looks away from the camera. “Oh Lord, I am in trouble.”

Jack smiles softly. “We both are, Bits.”

Bitty looks up then with a little tilted frown (that Jack desperately wants to kiss) and says, rather loud, “But honestly, would it have been so hard to have this grand realization while our bedrooms were four steps from each other across the hall? I mean.”

Jack laughs. “That would have been convenient.”

Bitty moans. “Oh lord, don’t you dare make me think about _that_ ," and Jack's imagination takes a dramatic spin, and his whole body shivers.

"One month," Jack says, and then he thinks, for a terrifying moment, of how close he came to never letting this happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has left amazing comments the last few days. I'm so sorry I've fallen behind on my replies, but I have read and adored every one of your messages! You honestly keep me going through these tough last chapters. *hugs*


	30. Madison

Sydney is carefully counting Jack’s pills back into the bottle. Eight left today, just right. 

“When do you leave?”

“Thursday.” Jack’s been packed since the weekend. Conditioning, two practices, one photo shoot, and two nights of sleeping alone to go.

She caps the bottle and then leans back in her chair, peering out at him from over the top of her glasses. He’s committed to making it up from Providence for appointments at least once a month. There’s been so much to tell her about this time, she’s filled an entire page of her legal pad. 

“Relationships can bring their own stresses, Jack. Call me from Georgia if you need to talk.”

“Thanks,” Jack says, placing his meds back in his bag. 

“I have to say though, I’ve never seen you this relaxed in four years,” Sydney gets an almost invisible smile on her face. 

Jack doesn’t know what to say to that, but he knows she’s right.

*

 **Shitty** _why was lardo the one to tell me you are going to visit bitty?_

 **Jack** _Sorry. I leave tomorrow morning._

 **Shitty** _fine. now I know where I stand_

 **Shitty** _you never visit me_

 **Jack** _Shitty, I was at your place last weekend._

 **Shitty** _yes, but i’m needy_

 **Jack** _We’ll send you a pie._

 **Shitty** _don’t mock me. i’ll eat it while sobbing_

 **Shitty** _i want to go with you_

 **Jack** _We’ll Skype with you, Shitty. I promise._

 **Shitty** _this is BULLSHIT_

 **Shitty** _i love you_

*

Jack has always understood that Bitty is a Georgia boy from a small town, but somehow the idea that this means his parents have an American flag hanging in front of the house, three barbecues, two large pickup trucks, and a waterbed makes it all quite a bit more real. 

“Can you even sleep on it at all?” Bitty asks over breakfast, after Jack’s first night in the guest room. “It makes me seasick. My mother thinks it is the height of glamour.”

“I _wish_ I was sleeping somewhere else,” Jack says, voice keyed low. “But the bed is fine.”

“Jack Zimmermann, behave.”

*

They’ve spoken every day since graduation, and it hasn’t been enough. It’s a different kind of loneliness to know that someone out in the world wants to be with him, and can’t be; he’s been learning to live with the constant, physical ache. Jack’s thankful for the whirlwind of his early days with the Falconers, but practices end eventually, and the nights are long.

Bitty has been more than candid regarding his fears about being out to his family, and Jack is one hundred percent determined not to make this harder for him, so they have been agonizingly hands-off (except for one intense moment they’d found to be alone in Bitty’s room, just after he’d arrived, that had escalated so quickly from a simple kiss to full-body, grinding _need_ that they had pulled apart, panting, and wordlessly agreed that they could not do that again at the house). 

Jack has his camera, and Suzanne is more than happy for Bitty to borrow her truck so they can go out and set up some extended exposures of the fireworks. Bitty catches Jack’s eye across the room when he realizes that they’ve succeeded in securing the entire night to themselves, and Jack thinks he might combust just from the look in his eyes. 

“I’ll have to actually take some pictures eventually,” Jack says, later, when he’s able to get a breath. Bitty’s mouth continues to burn hot trails along his jaw and down his throat. “Your mother will want to see.”

“Um-hmm,” Bitty hums, and Jack thinks he might really start to like the fact that Bitty goes from chatterbox to speechless as soon as Jack’s hands touch his skin. God.

Bitty has thrown a mess of blankets and sleeping bags into the truck bed. It’s a blazing hot night so they’ve made everything into a pile and settled in on top. Jack can still feel the press of the steel ridges of the truck bed against his back, but he honestly doesn’t care.

Bitty’s shirt is hiked up under his arms, and Jack lets his fingers trace along his ribs, the hard plane of his stomach. He’s so different from Kenny, who’d never wanted to linger over kisses, was always intently goal-oriented (his goal being to get off, and preferably get off more than once). Bitty seems more than content to kiss and touch and slowly expose more skin, inch at a time, until Jack’s a shuddering, needy mess of desire. (Even just the drive here, simply talking and touching hands and being alone together, had been almost too much.)

“We need to make a pie for Shitty,” Jack says, because Bitty has just pulled off Jack’s shirt, and he has to keep his head.

Bitty looks up from where he is kissing his way down Jack’s chest, “Jack, honey, no offense to our dear friend, but I really don’t want to talk about Shitty right now.” 

Jack closes his eyes and swallows as Bitty continues to nuzzle his way down. Shit. “Sorry. Oh god. _Eric._ It’s just... when I think too much... I get...”

Bitty immediately stops what he’s doing and sits back, eyes full of concern. “Should I stop?”

“No. No.” Jack reaches out and pulls Bitty close against him, and Bitty’s hands snake up under Jack’s back and trace small circles against his skin. It’s so overwhelming and right, and Jack knows he’ll never be able to say all the right things, or be worthy of all of this. 

“There's no rush. Tell me what you want, Jack?” Breath hot against Jack’s collarbone. 

Jack thinks about that question for a long moment, about how much he’s tried to figure out the many answers to it this year, about everyone who’s been there with him, helping him find his way onto this path. 

The truth is, when it comes to Bitty, Jack knows what he wants (god, he knows, he's known for ages), and in a rush of calm certainty, he discovers he can actually say it. “What I want. I want you to come and stay with me in Providence in August, for as long as you can," Jack says into Bitty's hair, his hand slowly stroking down his spine, "and I want you to visit Montreal with me so I can show you where I’m from. I want to come and watch you play, and sit in the stands thinking about you just like this, and I want you there when I win or lose, and I want to ruin my diet with your pies. And right now," Jack breathes in hard, "I really want to have sex with you in the back of this truck, if you want that too.”

Bitty looks up at him, his eyes huge and his lips flushed and parted, and he doesn’t speak at all, just presses up into a slow, deep kiss that Jack thinks might mean Bitty really wants those things, too.

"Jack Laurent Zimmermann," Bitty says, so soft, when he pulls back and presses his forehead against Jack's for a moment. Even though he doesn't say anything more out loud, Jack hears him.

"I know," Jack says, in reply, and then their lips meet again, and Jack finally let's himself believe that he might actually be doing this right.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, y'all, this was my big Nanowrimo push to write one ficlet for every day of the month (with a late start and late finish), and I did it. *cheers* It has been a blast and every comment and kudos along the way was just the icing on top of the Eric/Jack cupcake of joy. THIS IS NOT THE END, however. I'm nowhere near finished with these two. I'll add more to this as a series as I have time over the next months. Thank you to everyone who read, and especially to my dear regular commenters. You guys are too awesome for words.  
> Now, back to my regularly scheduled life, at least for a while. *hugs*


End file.
